Blood, Sand and Tears
by PsandQs
Summary: Written before season 10 aired, when Gaddafi was still in control of Libya. The Foreign Secretary wants Harry to utilise his past connections to influence events in Libya but Harry is sceptical of success. Instead he puts his own operation in place with Ruth's help. Things don't go quite as planned, and he and Ruth are forced to enter enemy territory. Will they both get out alive?
1. Chapter 1

- 0 -

_**It is difficult to keep quiet when everything is being done wrong, but the less you lose your temper the greater your advantage. Also then you will not go mad yourself. **_  
**- T.E. Lawrence**

**- 0 –**

_Reuters News, 30 June 2011_

British Apache helicopters targeted a military base being used by Libyan leader Muammar Gaddafi's forces, the Ministry of Defence (MoD) said. The raid, on 30 June 2011, targeted the al Mayah military camp, near Az Zawiyah, west of the Libyan capital Tripoli. In a statement, the Nato-led international coalition said its forces had destroyed more than 50 military targets in the west of Libya this week.

- 0 -

_Friday 1 July 2011, evening  
London, Whitehall_

Harry was not a happy man. The Home Secretary had dragged him along to a diplomatic cocktail function, and he was loath to refuse after the support Towers had given him during the Inquiry. However, that did not mean that he enjoyed being there. So he stood to the side, moodily sipping his second Scotch of the night, and watched the diplomats and politicians play out the timeless dance of political and sexual networking. He wondered again why Towers wanted him here. His eyes found the rotund Home Secretary across the room, deep in discussion with the Foreign Secretary. As though she felt his gaze on her, she looked across at him. She spoke briefly to Towers, and the two of them began to work their way through the crowd towards him. Harry frowned. He and Helen Carlisle had not yet found common ground, and she regarded him and what he did with ill-disguised distaste. She saw the Security Services as a necessary evil, and made it plain that she did not approve of their methods. As they approached, he suspected he was about to find out why Towers insisted on bringing him here.

"Harry," Towers said expansively as soon as they were close enough. "Enjoying yourself?"  
Harry surveyed his surroundings. "A room filled with insincere politicians, forgettable food and Scotch of questionable quality – what's not to enjoy?"  
Helen Carlisle lifted her eyebrows. "I can see why you're not a diplomat, Harry," she said haughtily.  
He ignored her and instead addressed Towers. "Why am I here, Home Secretary?"  
"Ah, yes. Why don't we step into the Smoking Room for this conversation?"  
He led them through a door to Harry's right into a smaller room, where clumps of leather chairs were grouped together. There were a few other occupants, and Towers guided them to a deserted corner before settling himself in one of the chairs.  
Harry scrutinised the two politicians opposite him. They were both wary, and doing their best to keep on his good side. He viewed that as a bad sign, and was sure he would not like whatever they were about to ask him.

Towers cleared his throat. "The government is working on a strategy to end the conflict in Libya, and Helen thinks you may be useful." He turned to her. "Why don't you explain it to him?"  
So Towers wasn't totally on board with the strategy, Harry surmised. But he was lower on the political pecking order than Carlisle, so wasn't in a position to challenge her.  
Helen eyed the experienced spook whilst trying to figure out the best way to make her proposal. As always she found him a difficult man to read. She'd had dealings with him in the past, and whilst there was something about him that intrigued her, she was also aware that there had to be a dark side to him. It was her firm opinion that no truly good man would choose such a shady occupation. Towers had advised her to be forthright and to the point, as Harry Pearce did not have an abundance of patience, so she got straight to the heart of the matter.  
"I am personally going out there to meet with various role-players, to see if I can broker the start of negotiations," she said.  
It was Harry's turn to lift his eyebrows. "You're going to Libya? Isn't that rather dangerous?"  
"Well, when I say Libya, I mean I'm going to the _HMS Liverpool_, more specifically. She's still lying off the coast. I'll make my headquarters on the ship, and we'll bring the role-players there to meet with them."

Harry dropped his eyes in an attempt to hide his incredulity, but apparently he was not fast enough. Carlisle bristled. "You don't have confidence in my abilities, I see," she said acerbically.  
"It's not personal," he responded calmly. "But I feel obliged to point out the patently obvious. You are a woman, and your chances of achieving anything in a country dominated by Muslims are slim to none."  
She smiled thinly. "I see your legendary powers of observation are still intact. Yes, it's true that I am indeed a woman, despite some of the malicious rumours doing the rounds. However, I believe there is a way to overcome this problem."

Harry glanced at Towers, who appeared more interested in the surroundings than the discussion. He really didn't support this initiative, Harry decided. Carlisle continued.  
"At this moment in time, Gaddafi is the biggest stumbling block to a negotiated solution. If we are to achieve anything, we need to persuade him to compromise. You know, of course, that Moussa Koussa defected in March."  
Harry nodded. The former Libyan Intelligence chief and then Foreign Minister was the first prominent member of Muammar Gaddafi's government to jump ship.  
"And you also know that he was regarded as one of Gaddafi's closest confidantes before he defected. We have been trying to determine who has taken over that role. It didn't help that MI6 has been unable to get close to anyone within the inner circle. In fact, they have been forced to move their base of operations out of Tripoli, and we are currently dependent on whatever the Foreign Office can cobble together by talking to other countries that still have some influence there. We think we have now identified a man that could be persuaded to act as our voice in Gaddafi's ear."

Harry didn't bother to hide his scepticism this time. Muammar Gaddafi was not the kind of man to be influenced by anyone, in his opinion. He was power-mad, and he would cling to it even if he had to destroy his country to do so. He would also deal harshly with any confidante who held opinions he did not want to hear. Men like Gaddafi surrounded themselves with yes-men; if you didn't toe the party line you wouldn't last long in the inner circle.  
"What makes you so sure that this man you've identified has influence over Gaddafi?" he asked.  
"He is regarded as somewhat of a hero in Libya," Carlisle responded. "He was arrested and interrogated by us after the Lockerbie bombing, but did not crack, and we let him go. He returned home to great acclaim."  
Now Harry knew why he was here.

He had handled most of the interrogations after Lockerbie, and it was he who had broken the man that divulged the names of those involved.  
"Ah, I see," he said.  
"Do you?" Carlisle asked sharply.  
"Yes." Harry gave her a hard look. "The man you're referring to is Yusif al-Sanussi. I was the one who interrogated him."  
He could see Carlisle's distaste over the methods she suspected he'd used to interrogate the man in her eyes. It was a bit rich, seeing as how she was more than willing to use that incident to her own advantage now.  
"What makes you think he'll be susceptible to the Western point of view?" he asked, wondering how much she knew.  
Carlisle looked at Towers, who roused himself from his indifference. "It has come to our attention that al-Sanussi may not be such a big hero after all, but was made to look like one and put away for a rainy day."  
He regarded Harry with a hint of a smile. "Apparently a young upstart of an intelligence officer saw an opportunity, and put it into place without getting approval from his superiors. By the time they found out there was nothing to be done."

Harry smiled. "Not so young and not quite an upstart by that time," he said ruefully. "How did you find out?"  
"Richard Dolby is still a bitter man about the way you circumvented him. I suspect he blabbed in the hope that it would cast you in a bad light."  
"Hmm," Harry responded non-committally, although he secretly concurred. It would not do to play out their internal squabbles in front of powerful politicians like these.  
He turned back to the Foreign Secretary. "So you want me to blackmail him into helping you."  
She flinched at the use of the unsavoury phrase, and when she looked into the spook's eyes she saw a hint of scorn there, and knew he had used it on purpose. It was a subtle reminder that, in this instance, she had no right to the moral high ground.  
"Yes," she ground out.

Harry sat back thoughtfully. He could point out to her that even if al-Sanussi could be coerced into doing their bidding, Gaddafi would never listen to him, and al-Sanussi would be lucky to escape with his life. In the end, all they would achieve is the destruction of a possible valuable inside source. But there was also another angle to consider: The NATO forces had been stepping up the bombing campaign recently, and he feared that Britain might become a target for reprisal attacks. A germ of an idea began to form in the back of his head.  
"All right." He looked at the Foreign Secretary. "I'll need to bring my own Arabic translator along."  
She seemed about to object, so he interrupted: "I can't do this with a Foreign Office translator who'll show discomfort at some of the things he'll have to translate. It's non-negotiable."  
Carlisle glared at him, suspecting that this was yet another dig at her.  
Towers observed their interaction with interest. "I agree with Harry, Helen. Best let them do their dark work in isolation."  
She acquiesced reluctantly. "We leave on Monday," she said as she stood up. "I'll see you at Brize Norton at 08:00."  
Harry also stood, and nodded. "I'll be there."

The two men watched her stride out of the room briskly.  
"I think you pissed her off," remarked Towers, somewhat amused.  
Harry shrugged, then studied the other man. "You know this is folly. Gaddafi will just as soon shoot al-Sanussi than listen to him."  
"I know," the Home Secretary sighed. "And so does the PM, I suspect. My gut tells me this is a PR exercise more than anything else. The more pertinent question is why you agreed to do it."  
Harry drained his glass. "I wasn't aware refusal was an option," he stated before rising from his chair.  
His studied casual air set off alarm bells in Towers' head and he scrutinised his companion closely. "For God's sake, Harry. Don't do anything idiotic. You barely survived the last Inquiry."  
Harry looked down at him. "I assure you, I will act in the best interests of the country." He nodded a greeting, turned and walked away.  
Towers looked after him, not mollified by the enigmatic answer he received at all.

- 0 -

Harry stood on the pavement and contemplated the implications of the idea developing in the back of his mind. He needed to talk it over with someone, and there was only one person that came to mind. His driver was waiting patiently at the kerb, but Harry wandered a few paces away before dialling the familiar number and lifting the mobile to his ear. She answered after only a few rings and his heart lifted at the sound of her voice.  
"Hi," she said warmly. "Are you done?"  
"Hi Ruth," he said, his voice caressing her name like an endearment. "I can't face another minute in the company of those windbags." He hesitated, and glanced at his watch. It was half past nine. Was it too late to see her, he wondered, before ploughing on.  
"I know it's a bit late, but can I come over?"  
"Harry." There was a note of reproach in her voice, and he froze in disappointment before she surprised him by adding softly: "It's never too late for you to come over," and he could have shouted for joy. Their relationship had become intimate shortly after the conclusion of the Inquiry, but it was still quite new, and he was cautiously learning the boundaries of this new state of affairs. He was careful never to assume anything; he had read the situation wrong too many times in the past to take that risk.  
He smiled, and a woman passing him glanced at him curiously.  
"Will you stay the night?" Ruth continued hopefully, and he agreed eagerly.

He dismissed his driver, and walked a few blocks before hailing a taxi. Mercifully the cabbie didn't want to talk, preferring instead to listen to the radio. The news was on, and the mention of Gaddafi's name grabbed his attention.  
"Can you turn the volume up?" he requested, and the cabbie complied. Harry listened with growing concern.

_Earlier today, Col Gaddafi threatened to attack Europe in revenge for Nato's operations in Libya. He said Libya would target European "homes, offices, families" unless Nato stopped its campaign. "We can decide to treat you in a similar way. If we decide to, we are able to move to Europe like locusts, like bees," Col Gaddafi said.  
"We advise you to retreat before you are dealt a disaster."_

As he stared out the window, he thought back to his interrogation of Yusif al-Sanussi. The Libyan had been a tough nut to crack, but Harry and his colleague Archie had managed to do it eventually. They had relied on psychological methods rather than violence – creating the impression that other detainees were being beaten up, shocked or water-boarded through sound, or by leaving tell-tale equipment lying around the interrogation room. They had also found out that this particular suspect had a child with an underage western mistress, and Harry used this to good effect to break him. In the end he had sung like a canary, giving up the perpetrators and the means to prove their guilt. Because of the completeness of his surrender, Harry had got the idea of planting him back in Libya as a sleeper. If he was sent back as a man who had withstood the torture of the imperialists, he would be feted as a hero and chances were that he would gain an influential position in the Gaddafi inner circle. That, Harry had believed all those years ago, might be invaluable in future. And now that time was here, he reflected as the cab pulled up in front of Ruth's apartment block. It was time to awaken Agent Yushua.

_tbc_

**A/N: Harry's involvement in the interrogation of Lockerbie suspects is mentioned in Harry's Diary. I will take some artistic liberties with events in Libya and Britain's reaction to it in parts to come.**


	2. Chapter 2

**- 0 -**

**_There could be no honour in sure success, but much might be wrested from a sure defeat._**  
**- T.E. Lawrence**

**- 0 -**

_Friday 1 July, late night  
London, Ruth's apartment_

They lay entwined under a single sheet, waiting for their heartbeats to slow down. Harry had wanted to discuss the Libya issue with her before indulging in any pleasurable activity, but that thought went out the window the moment she'd closed the door behind him and pulled him towards her by his tie. Before he could get a word in, she had kissed him hungrily, and he had happily given in to her ministrations. In fact, he had reciprocated enthusiastically, and by the time they had reached the bedroom he had stripped her of everything but her underwear. Ruth could be unstoppably passionate, he had learned to his delight as soon as they began sleeping together, and times like this, when she couldn't keep her hands off him, did his ego a world of good. She was not the only one, of course. He was not ashamed to admit that she had the ability to make him lose all control, something that he had seldom been able to do with previous lovers. And he liked it. It offered a feeling of freedom that very little in his busy, regimented life could provide, and he craved it when he was not with her. She made him feel alive, and he could see in her eyes, when he hovered above her as they made love, that he did the same for her, and nothing gave him more joy. It was a wondrous thing to see those striking eyes and that beautiful face so animated, so blissful, so fulfilled. He rarely closed his eyes during their coupling, because he couldn't bear to miss seeing that expression or her desire for him radiating from every pore.

These happy reminiscences led his thoughts back to the subject he had come to discuss with her. In the vague plan that had been forming in his head since the meeting with the Foreign Secretary, Ruth played an integral part. After their love making, however, he was filled with a desire to cherish and coddle her, and keep her away from danger as much as possible. But as he ran his hand appreciatively over the curve of her hip, he also knew instinctively that such an approach would destroy what they had. The success of their union was dependent on trust, and that included trust in each other's professional abilities. If he tried to wrap her in cotton wool, she would resent him for it.  
"What are you thinking about?" She looked at him with luminous eyes, and he lifted his head to kiss her languidly before answering.  
"I want to discuss something with you. But not here; not in bed."  
It was the one firm rule they had established when they started seeing each other, and enforced religiously: there was to be no discussion of work in bed.  
Ruth grasped his meaning immediately, and snuggled closer to him in response. She was not quite ready to give up on her relaxed state, on the feel of his skin against hers. One of her legs slid over his, and he groaned appreciatively.  
"It can wait until tomorrow," he murmured, as his hands started to wander.  
Her own hands did some exploring before she withdrew them reluctantly, kissing his neck as she did so.  
"No. It's going to distract you until you've told me."  
She sat up and his eyes lingered on her. "I really don't think it will," he said earnestly. But instead of reaching for her again, he sat up too. One of the first things he'd learned about her was that she seldom changed her mind once it was set upon a specific course of action.

She put on his shirt, buttoning it haphazardly, whilst he slipped on his boxers. They moved to the kitchen where Harry started moving around gathering mugs, Milo and milk. Ruth leant against the doorjamb and watched him fondly, stirred by the familiarity of having him in her kitchen, making them Milo. Dressed only in his boxers. Her eyes lingered on his broad shoulders as he turned away to warm milk in the microwave, before moving on to admire his biceps and finally sliding down to caress his backside, so wonderfully rounded and… full. When he turned back to her it took her a few seconds to drag her gaze up to his face, but his focus remained on his task and he didn't notice. It left her free to leisurely drift her eyes over his front, and she felt desire build anew. One of the things she loved about Harry was how comfortable he was in his own skin. He knew that he could be in better shape, or have more hair, but he wasn't hung up on those things, and it was infectious and made her less concerned about her own imperfections. She was reminded of the comment she'd made to one of the pretty young things in the Registry Office not too long ago. The girl had expressed confusion as to why so many women found Harry sexy. "I mean, the man's pudgy, for God's sake," she had exclaimed. He and Ruth had just started sleeping together and no-one knew yet, but she couldn't refrain from replying.  
"That's because he's pudgy in _all _the right places," she had said knowingly, with a smirk, and had left the girl behind, slack-jawed and speechless.

Harry handed her a mug and leaned back against the counter blowing on his own as he gathered his thoughts. He recounted his meeting with the Foreign Secretary, and smiled in vindication when Ruth raised the same concerns he had. He finally got to the crux of the matter.  
"She wants me to go along and blackmail Yusif al-Sanussi into becoming our mouthpiece."  
Ruth shook her head. "You know they're more likely to kill him than to listen to him."  
"I know."  
She studied him. "Then why did you agree to it?"  
In response he changed the focus of the conversation slightly. "What do you think, in your capacity as my best analyst, the chances are that Libya will launch retaliatory terror attacks against Britain?"  
Ruth was silent for a while as her brain turned over all available information. "I'd say the chances are very good, especially in light of the threats made by Gaddafi today."  
Harry nodded, pleased that they were on the same wavelength. "So do I, and that is why I agreed to it."  
He could see that she was beginning to figure out his plan.  
"You're going to try and use this al-Sanussi to get intelligence about possible attacks planned in Britain?" she asked slowly.  
"Yes."  
"How is he going to do that if he loses all influence because he's spouting the West's rhetoric in Gaddafi's ear?"  
Harry just looked at her, waiting for the penny to drop. Which it did.  
"Oh, Harry. You plan to countermand the Foreign Secretary's instructions, don't you? You're going to tell your agent to ignore what she said, and to do your bidding only."  
"Yes," he said again, and she looked at him with a mixture of admiration and concern.  
"That's a dangerous strategy. Carlisle will not take kindly to you ruining her bid for glory. She'll destroy you."

Harry took a sip of his Milo. "I know. Which is why I insisted on taking my own translator along. I don't want some Foreign Office lackey to witness my discussion with Yushua."  
He looked levelly at her as he spoke again, every inch the commanding Section Head, despite his state of undress. "I want you to be my translator."  
It was not a request, but it was not quite an order either, and she knew that if she declined he would accept it, and perhaps even be secretly relieved. But the fact that he ignored his natural inclination to protect her, and instead took a decision that was for the best of the operation meant a lot to her, and she nodded without hesitation. They watched each other wordlessly, both aware what the other was thinking, before Ruth suddenly frowned.  
"Why do you call him Yushua? His name is Yusif, isn't it?"  
"Yes. Yushua is his code-name."  
Ruth smiled in admiration. "Very fitting. Joshua was one of the twelve spies in the Old Testament, and is revered in both Christianity and Islam for this role. A spy with a foot in each sphere of belief." She moved toward him. "You came up with that, didn't you?"  
He put down his mug and reached for her. "Yes. And I love that you got it immediately," he said, before he turned them and lifted her onto the counter. His hands skimmed down her front as he unbuttoned the shirt and parted it reverently.  
"What a brilliant, beautiful woman you are," he marvelled, desire burning in his eyes, before he tangled his hands in her hair and kissed her ardently. She responded with equal fervour, and they were soon lost to the world, passionately wrapped up in each other.

- 0 -

_Saturday 2 July, early morning  
London, Ruth's apartment_

Harry slid out of bed quietly, and Ruth barely stirred. He collected his mobile from the bedside table and moved into the sitting room where he dialled Dimitri's number. His officer took some time to answer, sounding groggy when he did.  
Harry was unrepentant. "I need you to do something for me. There's a woman, name of Lily Nelson, aged thirty-seven. She used to live in Clapham in '89. She has a daughter, Andrea, who should be twenty-two now. Find them, get me some pictures. I'm calling a team meeting for this afternoon, so if I can have them by then, that would be useful."  
"Right," Dimitri responded, as he philosophically let go of yet another weekend. He wondered what scheme his boss was cooking up this time.

Harry disconnected and looked up to see Ruth watching him from the doorway.  
"You're up early," she observed guardedly.  
"I tried not to wake you, but in vain apparently." He smiled disarmingly, but she wasn't buying it. She knew he was up to something. Harry capitulated with a rueful sigh.  
"Yushua had a child with an underage girl in '89, and I used that to break him back then. I thought it might once again be useful, if added pressure is needed to get him to cooperate."  
He watched her apprehensively, sensitive to anything that involved children where she was concerned. Though she never talked about it, he was certain that she still missed the Greek boy. The death of George and the loss of the boy would forever lie like a shadow between them, despite her proclamations that she didn't blame him for it. He accepted that; such was human nature. Forgiving didn't mean that one could just forget everything; he knew that all too well. Because of this, he preferred to avoid situations that would remind her of the boy. But she would have found out what he planned to do eventually, so better to confess now than surprise her with the information during the operation, he figured.

Ruth looked at her hands and didn't say anything for a few seconds. She could sense Harry's discomfort, and she knew the cause of it. And he was right. Every time they used an innocent to achieve their objectives, Nico's face swam to the front of her mind and stayed there, a silent accusing ghost from the past. Nothing could be gained from talking it to death, so she didn't try to explain what she was feeling to Harry. Instead she contained herself to express understanding that what he was planning was necessary. "It might be useful if the threat of exposing him isn't enough to sway him," she agreed.  
Harry smiled at her a little sadly, and nodded wordlessly, wishing that he didn't have to do these unsavoury things quite so regularly. Ruth came over and took his hand. "It's the right call, just as it was back when the child was still small," she stated, squeezing his hand. He sighed, then followed her into the kitchen.

- 0 -

_Late afternoon  
The Grid_

The team was gathered in the meeting room, and Harry had just briefed them on the Libya operation.  
"Ruth will accompany me as a translator," he concluded. "Erin, Dimitri, you need to be on standby back here. We may be working within limited time, so as soon as we get anything from my agent, you need to be ready to act on it. I've already asked the Home Secretary to increase the threat level."  
Erin nodded. "We'll be ready."  
Harry looked to Dimitri questioningly, and the younger man slid an envelope across the table. "The photos you asked for."  
"Thank you." Harry's eyes rested on the envelope, but he didn't reach out to touch it. Instead he said, "Ruth, a word," and the others took that as their cue to leave.

Once they were alone, Harry lifted his eyes to hers. "I want you to do some digging. Quietly."  
She cocked her head. "What am I looking for?"  
He stood and walked to the corner of the room, hands in pockets. "I keep asking myself why the PM would authorise this foolhardy enterprise. He's not stupid, for a politician."  
Ruth smothered a smile at the caveat.  
"There is a smell of desperation to the whole thing, and I'd like to know what it is they're not telling us," he continued. "Start with MI6. The Foreign Secretary was a little too eager to convince me that our sister department is impotent where Libya is concerned. If there weren't one or two of their officers 'advising' the rebels, I'd be very surprised."

- 0 -

_Monday 4 July, morning  
En route to Libya_

On Harry's request, the RAF pilot took the plane on a detour across North Africa at a high enough altitude to be safe from anti-aircraft artillery. When they entered Libyan air space, Ruth leaned over Harry's shoulder to look out the window. Mile upon mile of dry, desolate desert slid by below.  
"The land of blood, sand and tears," Harry murmured, for her ears only. "That's what Yushua called it."  
"Apt," she decided.  
"Hmm." Without turning his head from the window, he rested the tips of his fingers lightly against the back of her hand that was curled around the armrest between them. She turned her hand upward and allowed him to caress her palm softly, sensually.

Far below them, the coastline passed by, and oil tankers the size of Dinky toys were dotted around the harbour. Unbeknownst to the two people staring so intently at them, aboard one of the outbound tankers at that very moment, five men were gathered around a table, studying a map of the UK on which five targets were marked in red.

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

_**- 0 -**_

_**Your success will be proportioned to the amount of mental effort you devote to it.**_**  
- T.E. Lawrence**

**- 0 –**

_Monday 4 July, late morning  
Malta_

When they stepped off the plane the heat hit them square in the face. Harry started sweating immediately as they crossed the tarmac to where the _HMS Liverpool_'s Lynx helicopter squatted in the heat waves, its rotors slowly turning. There were six of them; the Foreign Secretary was accompanied by her PA and her Middle East advisor, Mark Appletree. Then there was the Foreign Office Arabic translator, Emmett Mayfair, who regarded Ruth with mistrust. Even though Harry merely introduced her as his colleague, Carlisle had evidently told Mayfair that Harry didn't want to make use of his services, but preferred to bring his own translator. As soon as they were strapped in, the Lynx lifted into the air ungainly, pointed its nose towards the ocean and moved off. The pilot stayed low, skimming the rooftops to give the VIPs a good view of the Malta beaches before he turned towards the open horizon and increased altitude and speed. Not long after a low grey shape took form, and morphed into the formidable warship that was the _HMS Liverpool_. The Mediterranean was calm, and the pilot put the helicopter down effortlessly on the ship's landing pad.

Commander Robert Marsh was waiting for them. He saluted smartly.  
"Welcome aboard, Foreign Secretary."  
His eyes swept over the rest of the party, and Ruth noticed his mouth quirk when his gaze fell on Harry, but it was gone so soon that she wondered whether she had imagined it. He escorted them to the guest quarters, apologising for the Spartan accommodation as they walked.  
"Unfortunately we only have four rooms in the guest quarters, so two of you will have to settle for the Officer's quarters. I took the liberty of billeting Sir Harry and his colleague there."  
Ruth saw Mayfair smirk at the perceived putdown, but she immediately recognised the advantages of staying apart from the rest of the delegation. It strengthened her suspicions that there was a connection between the Commander and Harry. When she glanced sideways, Harry's face showed irritation and he gave every impression that the arrangements inconvenienced him. It was a convincing performance, and he kept it up until they were alone with the Commander.

Marsh led them up some steel steps, and as soon as they turned the corner into a quiet corridor he turned to Harry and his face split into a broad grin. "Bloody hell, what's the world coming to when a bloke like you gets knighted?" he asked as he shook Harry's hand enthusiastically.  
Harry laughed and patted the other man on the back. "You know how it is – nowadays you only have to stay alive past fifty and you get one."  
"Bollocks. I'm past fifty and I don't have one," Robert said good-humouredly.  
"That's outrageous," Harry responded, tongue firmly in cheek. "If you acquit yourself well during this operation, I'll put in a good word for you."  
Ruth watched their interaction with interest. It was obvious that the two men knew each other well, and liked each other. There was mutual respect underlying their easy banter, but she could sense something deeper from the Commander, a more intense feeling that she couldn't identify. It fascinated Ruth to see this new side to Harry.

He became aware of her attention and turned towards her.  
"Forgive me. Robert, this is Ruth Evershed. Robert and I were at Sandhurst together, and then did a tour in Northern Ireland before going our separate ways," he explained to her.  
The Commander extended his hand, and his handshake was firm and reassuring. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms Evershed."  
"Ruth is fine. Same here, Commander." She studied him curiously, noting the close-cropped iron gray hair, the alert green eyes and the faint jagged scar that ran down his left cheek.  
He nodded. "And when it's just the three of us, please call me Robert."  
He turned to Harry. "I'll post a Marine at the end of the corridor, to make sure no-one can disturb you without warning. I'll say it's standard practice if anyone asks", he said as he showed them to two adjacent rooms. "I'm the door at the end of the corridor. I stocked up on some good Scotch in honour of your visit. Come over after dinner tonight for a drink. Now, unfortunately, I have to get back to the bridge."  
They watched him walk away, and it amused Ruth to recognise the same straight-backed marching gait Harry still walked with when moving with purpose. "He seems like a good man," she remarked, and Harry nodded.  
"A man you can go to war with," he said enigmatically, before he brushed his hand down her back and headed off to his room to unpack.

Ruth opened the door to her own room and surveyed it. Spartan was definitely the right word to describe it. It was small, and contained a narrow cot, small table and a miniscule wardrobe. Everything was bolted down. She placed her suitcase on the bed and pulled out the burqa Harry had requested her to pack and hung it up carefully. She added her lightweight blouses, skirts and pants, and sat on the bed, wondering what this operation would bring. The digging Harry had asked her to do had brought nothing conclusive to light. There was the hint of something, a whisper she had picked up from MI6, but she hadn't been able to pin it down before she left. She had requested her contact in MI6 to keep digging, and hoped that she would hear from him before the end of the day. Her phone beeped with a message from Harry, summoning her to his room.

She knocked and entered to find him sat on the bed, surrounded by electronic equipment.  
"Where did all this stuff come from?" She knew for a fact that Harry had brought only one small suitcase along.  
"I sent it on ahead. I didn't want to arouse the suspicions of our illustrious fellow travellers by bringing it with us."  
They got to work, setting up the communications equipment and the laptop that linked them to the MI5 database. Ruth accessed her mail, and found a message from her MI6 contact waiting for her. Harry was laying out an array of bugs, and paused when Ruth said, "Ah-ha…"  
"Got something?"  
She turned to him, her eyes bright and triumphant. "A recent MI6 assessment of the Libyan rebel movement. They express concern that unity among the different groups is tenuous, and feel that unless total victory is ensured in the near future, the rebel alliance might fall apart."  
Harry sat back on the bed and wiped the sweat from his face. Even with the air-conditioning he was hot. "So that explains the sudden haste," he grumbled, wondering irritably why Ruth seemed unbothered by the stifling heat.  
"Let's keep the fact that we know about this to ourselves. Carlisle called earlier; she wants to hold a planning meeting in an hour."  
Ruth nodded, noticing Harry's discomfort. "I'll get you some ice water," she offered, and squeezed his arm as she walked past him. She had seen the ice machine at the end of the corridor earlier, and filled two glasses to the brim.

Harry accepted his from her gratefully, then took her hand and pulled her down to sit next to him. She took the washcloth that lay folded at the foot of the bed and wrapped a handful of ice in it, and placed it on the back of his neck.  
He sighed appreciatively. "Oh God, that feels wonderful."  
Ruth smiled. "It's a trick I learnt in Cyp-"  
She stopped talking suddenly, unwilling to broach a subject they had skirted around until now.  
Harry closed his eyes momentarily, sadly. He took a deep breath and touched her hand reassuringly. "It's all right to talk about your life in Cyprus, Ruth."  
She turned her head away, unconvinced, so he pressed on. "This ice trick is working like a charm. Any other useful things you learnt there?"  
He was doing his best to put her at ease, and she appreciated the gesture; tried to meet him half-way.  
"Well, I learnt to cook. Seafood dishes especially."  
Harry perked up. "Really? I love seafood."  
She smiled. "I know. Every time we go out to dinner you order it in some form or the other."  
"Ah, yes. Boringly predictable, as usual."  
"Oh no. Not in the least. Those are the last words I would use to describe you," she said with conviction, and he tried not to look too pleased.  
He leaned in to kiss her softly. "Thanks." After a look at his watch, he drained the glass. "Come on, duty calls."

- 0 -

The six of them were gathered around a small conference table. Carlisle's PA handed out folders, and hesitated momentarily when she reached Ruth. Harry scowled at her and she hastily placed a folder in front of the other woman as well.  
"All right," the Foreign Secretary stated as everyone opened their folders, "this will be the state of play: Tomorrow morning the rebel delegation will arrive by helicopter. Mark and I will handle that meeting. Your presence will not be required, Sir Harry."  
She gave him a challenging look, expecting him to argue, but he nodded amiably instead.  
"Good," she said, the wind somewhat taken out of her sails.  
"They will leave by two o'clock. The government delegation will come in the afternoon, and will consist of only one person. He will come by boat."  
Harry glanced at Ruth; they both understood the meaning behind this. Yushua was not coming with the blessing of Gaddafi.  
Carlisle's voice brought them back to the matter at hand. "You will naturally be present for this meeting, Harry."  
"No," he said, and everyone stared at him in surprise. "I think you should make your pitch to him first, Foreign Secretary, without him being aware of my presence," he explained. "Then, once you are done, I will make an appearance. Take him by surprise, unbalance him. I will hold a separate meeting with him and play my part."

Carlisle hesitated, clearly not happy with this arrangement. However, she could not think of any good reason to refuse, so nodded shortly. "Fine." She gestured to the folders. "The position we would like him to persuade Gaddafi to take is in there. You should also note, Harry, that Mark will take the lead during the discussions. You see, I'm not a total idiot," she continued with a note of triumph.  
Harry pursed his lips and refrained from pointing out that all the men in the room would still be aware that she called the shots behind the scenes.  
"I've never thought you were a _total_ idiot, Foreign Secretary," he responded equably instead, as he scooped up his folder and marched from the room.  
Carlisle smiled, pleased, but the smile slid from her face moments later, replaced by an uncertain look, as she belatedly recognised the implied insult in his comment.

- 0 -

The Commander's room was more spacious than those of the other officers. It held a small dining table that could seat four people, and the three of them were gathered around it and a bottle of Ardbeg. Ruth mostly sat back quietly and observed the two men. Their rapport was unmistakable. Ruth had seldom seen Harry so relaxed in someone else's company. He laughed easily and often as Robert regaled them with amusing tales of military life, and she felt a weight lift from her heart. She could see the shadows the last year had put in his eyes slowly melt away under Robert's easy camaraderie, and was unspeakably grateful for it. It made her recognise the importance of friends outside the Service, of people in one's life that weren't weighed down by the same terrible knowledge that she and Harry shared. She resolved to make a greater effort to attend her choir practices more regularly, and not to spur the offers of friendship from the other women any longer. Harry's eyes met hers, and he smiled softly, perhaps intuitively guessing where her thoughts had gone.

Robert had watched the interaction between Harry and Ruth all night, and had seen the soft expression on his friend's face when he looked at Ruth in unguarded moments. He filed the information away and didn't give any indication that he'd noticed. He knew Harry as a private man, and he did not want to put him in an uncomfortable position by letting on that he could see Harry had feelings for his translator.  
"So, Ruth, I take it you have an interest in Arab history?" Robert asked, trying to draw her into the conversation; curious to know more about the woman that seemed to have broken through Harry's defences.  
"What makes you say that?" Ruth asked guardedly.  
"I just assumed, since you speak Arabic. People usually learn the language of cultures they're interested in, don't they?"  
She relaxed. "Yes, I suppose you're right."  
"What started you off, if I may ask?" He was truly interested to hear her answer, she realised. She glanced at Harry and he gave her a subtle nod, as if to say, _you can trust this man_.

"Lawrence of Arabia," she explained with a smile. "I saw the movie when I was twelve years old, and was hooked. I devoured everything I could lay my hands on that had been written by _and_ about T.E. Lawrence after that. That naturally brought with it an interest in Arab culture."  
The Commander stared at her. "Twelve? You read _Seven Pillars of Wisdom_ when you were twelve, then?"  
Ruth nodded somewhat self-consciously, and he shook his head in disbelief.  
"Incredible. I can't get most of the people under my command to read it, and they're grown-ups."  
His incredulity amused Harry. He, on the other hand, had no trouble imagining a twelve-year old Ruth losing herself in the adventures of T.E. Lawrence.  
"Ruth is an exceptional woman," he said, unable to hide the warmth and admiration in his voice.  
"You make your troops read _Seven Pillars of Wisdom_?" Ruth asked, intrigued.  
"Of course. It's a must-read for any Westerner going to war in an Arab country. Even though we might now think that many of Lawrence's views are quaint, he had a rare insight into the psyche and culture of Arab people."  
She appraised the Commander anew, pleasantly surprised by his comment. But then, she should have known that any good friend of Harry's would not be narrow-minded about the world. His next words only strengthened this impression.  
"I don't think either the Foreign Secretary or her Middle East advisor have read it, though."  
Harry and Ruth smiled at each other.  
"No," Harry responded thoughtfully. "And that is why I'm going to pursue a slightly different agenda to theirs."  
He looked directly at his friend. "And I may need some help in doing so, Robert."

_tbc_

**A/N: Ruth's interest in T.E. Lawrence is documented in the Personnel Files.**


	4. Chapter 4

**- 0 -**

_**Power lay in his calm assumption that he would receive as perfect obedience as he gave trust.**_**  
- T.E. Lawrence**

**- 0 –**

_Monday 4 July, late evening  
HMS Liverpool, the Mediterranean_

The Commander's glass froze half-way to his lips. Carefully, without taking his eyes off Harry, he placed it back on the table.  
"Christ, Harry. What is it with you and disobeying orders?" He turned to Ruth. "He was the same in the Army. Questioning orders, following his own path."  
Harry didn't lift his gaze from the table. "We have a duty not to follow orders like sheep. Especially when they will only lead to ruin."  
He paused. "_'There are roads which must not be followed, armies which must not be attacked, towns which must not be besieged, positions which must not be contested, commands of the Sovereign which must not be obeyed._'" His voice was soft, his attention turned inward, focussed on some part of himself that they were not privy to.  
"From _The Art of War_. Sun Tzu," Ruth said with half a smile. "He posited that it is the duty of the military leader on the ground to judge whether the orders from the political leaders are feasible or not, since he is the one with all the facts in hand."  
Robert looked between the two of them and shook his head. "I see you've found a kindred spirit, Harry. He used to drive us mad back at Sandhurst, quoting all kinds of obscure texts to motivate going off-piste from direct orders."

Harry lifted his gaze from the table. "I was right more often than I was wrong, wasn't I?"  
The two men stared at each other, something unspoken passing between them.  
"Yes," Robert said in the end, "you were almost always right."  
"So will you help us?" Harry pressed.  
Robert pursed his lips and studied the man across the table, weighing everything he knew about him. And made up his mind.  
"If I can, and if I believe what you're asking of me is justified," he stated uncompromisingly, and Harry smiled.  
"I expect nothing less," he replied. "Thank you, Robert."  
"Mmm. What sort of help might you be looking for?" the Commander asked with some trepidation.  
"We may need to go into Tripoli to retrieve a package," Harry responded, and Ruth looked at him sharply. This was the first time he'd mentioned such a possibility.  
"Can you think of any way to get us in and out without anyone noticing?"

Two matching expressions of incredulity regarded him.  
"Are you kidding me?" Robert blurted. "Tripoli is crawling with Gaddafi loyalists. And even if that weren't the case, we are here strictly to patrol the shipping traffic – make sure no weapons are brought in that can strengthen the government's position. We are under express orders not to come within spitting distance of land."  
Harry got up impatiently and started pacing. "I know that. But I also know you have a contingent of SAS on board in case things get hairy and direct action is necessary. They must have a plan to make landfall unobserved."  
Robert glared at him with disbelief and some anger. "How could you possibly know that?"  
Harry straightened his shoulders imperceptibly, and Ruth recognised the mannerism; it signalled that he was about to do something he did not like, but deemed necessary for the success of the operation.  
"I've seen your Orders," he admitted quietly.  
It was Robert's turn to get up and turn his back on them. "Dear God," they heard him mumble before he swung back round. "Those Orders are Top Secret! How could you possibly have…"  
He came back to the table and sank into his chair. "You spy on the Admiralty too? Jesus, Harry! I thought you were supposed to spy on our enemies, not your own side."

Harry's eyes flicked briefly to Ruth, and there was a glimmer of self-disgust in them. He was putting a good friend in an untenable position, and even though he knew it was necessary for the operation, he hated doing it. He sat down opposite Robert.  
"I had to know whether the means to achieve my objectives were present, Robert. It wouldn't do much good to come here if there were no chance of retrieving the information we need. I'm sorry."  
Once again the two men regarded each other in silence, and Ruth felt the weight of the history between them. She had seen it before with men who had seen joint combat; there was something about the shared knowledge that they had killed people together that bound them to each other in inexpressible ways. It made her wonder what they had experienced during their tour in Northern Ireland.  
Taking a deep breath, Robert sat back. "All right. What do you plan to do?"  
When Harry hesitated, he added, "Come on. You owe me that much."  
The spook wavered a moment longer, then nodded. "Yes. I do."

He proceeded to explain his plan in broad strokes. "The problem is, if Yushua is coming here without the blessing of Gaddafi, the chances that he will be able to come back a second time are remote. If he doesn't have the information in his head, he'll have to go back and find it. Our best option then will be to have him leave it for us in a pre-arranged dead drop location."  
The Commander thought about it. "That sounds logical. But I just don't see how you'll be able to move around Tripoli, even if I could get you to land unnoticed. You don't exactly look like an Arab, Harry."  
"I know. But there are some Westerners left in Tripoli, aren't there? People working for the oil companies, for instance."  
Ruth's eyes lit up and she leaned forward. "I have an idea."  
Harry lifted an enquiring eyebrow.  
"There is a famous mosque in the Old City, and it continues to draw tourists. The Gurgi Mosque. Do you have a map of Tripoli?"  
Robert fetched one from a rack against the wall and spread it open on the table. Ruth pointed out the location to them. It was near the harbour.  
Harry smiled at her approvingly, and studied the map. "The Marriott Hotel is on the beach not too far from there, so if you can put us to shore near it, we can blend into one of the tourist groups that are bound to depart from the hotel to visit this mosque."  
It was obvious that Harry's mind was made up, and Robert knew him well enough not to argue further.  
"I'll have a quiet word with the SAS Commanding Officer," he promised.

- 0 -

They stood in front of their doors, inexplicably uncomfortable. Ruth rather ridiculously felt as though she was back in her mother's house, trying to sneak her boyfriend into her room. She wanted to ask Harry in, but when she looked at his face it was closed off, almost remote. Something was obviously wrong. He fished for his key and inserted it into the lock.  
"Goodnight, Ruth. Sleep well." He didn't meet her eye.  
She was about to let him go when all the other times in their complicated relationship either of them had chosen the cowardly way out came to her, and she reached out and grabbed his arm.  
"Harry," she implored, and his expression softened immediately. "Will you talk to me?"  
He grimaced and looked away. "I'm not sure I know how."  
But after a few seconds he opened the door and stood aside to let her in. She counted that as a small victory. He let her have the chair, and poured them each a glass of water before sitting down on the bed.

When he said nothing for the longest time, she hazarded a guess. "Is this about having to use your friend?"  
His head lifted and he stared at her, before a smile borne out of relief formed around his mouth. "It is rather frightening how well you know me."  
She didn't quite know what to say to that.  
"And strangely comforting, too," he admitted after a moment.  
Then he sighed, and tried to voice his thoughts. "It's not just that. But I feel like I'm always using _everyone_ I know for one purpose or another."  
She frowned, and he hurried on. "Even you, Ruth."  
Her eyes were focussed unwaveringly on him now, with a hint of fear in them. It was disconcerting.  
"I…" He faltered, and tried again. "I wonder sometimes whether I hung onto the dream of being with you out of selfishness. Whether you offer redemption for my many sins."

Now she understood. She moved to sit next to him, and leaned against his shoulder. "All love is in some sense selfish, Harry. The very notion that one is more special than anyone else to another person has a seed of selfishness in it, don't you think?"  
She lifted her hand and stroked his forearm. "But you know what? When you make love to me so devotedly, I see none of that in your eyes. You make me happy, so how can it be selfish on your part?"  
Then she leaned forward and kissed him, searing her words onto his lips, his tongue. When she broke off he protested and tried to pull her back to him.  
"No," she said and gently pushed him away. "I'm going to have a shower, and fetch my pyjamas. Then I'm coming back here."  
As she stood Harry eyed the narrow bed dubiously. "I'd love that, Ruth, but this bed is awfully small."  
"Then we'll have to spoon extra snugly," she said over her shoulder before turning back to look at him.  
"I'm not leaving you on your own to fret about this all night," she said in a voice that brooked no opposition, and he nodded without hesitation, loving her fiercely in that moment.

- 0 -

_Tuesday 5 July  
HMS Liverpool_

Harry and Ruth were huddled around the laptop, watching the feed from the bugs they had planted in the meeting room. The Foreign Secretary was there, demurely dressed and with a shawl covering her hair, flanked by Mark Appletree and the translator. On the other side of the table there was an array of representatives from the Libyan rebel movement. True to her word, Helen Carlisle stayed silent and allowed Appletree to do all the talking. She limited herself to passing him the occasional note, but things were not going well. The rebel delegates clearly did not have a united vision of the future, apart from removing Muammar Gaddafi from power. It was obvious that they had given little thought as to what would follow, and was unable to agree on the role each individual group would play. After an hour of listening to the haggling and Appletree's futile attempts to steer the deliberations in a specific direction, Harry yanked the earphones from his head and tossed them on the table in disgust.  
"This is hopeless."  
Ruth removed hers as well. "It seems unlikely that any worthwhile progress will be made," she agreed, disheartened by what she'd heard.  
"Even if Yushua could persuade Gaddafi to agree to negotiations, it would be pointless unless the rebels can get their house in order," Harry stated decisively. Any lingering doubts he might have had about countermanding the orders of the Foreign Secretary had been dispelled, and Ruth saw the renewed determination on his face.  
"So we are going ahead?" she asked, excitement and apprehension tingling in her veins.  
"Yes," Harry confirmed, "we are going ahead."

- 0 -

The rebel delegation had departed, and Harry had held a brief meeting with Carlisle. She was subdued; her disillusionment with the problems in the Rebel Alliance poorly disguised. He actually felt some sympathy for the dilemma she found herself in, but it didn't weaken his resolve to implement his own plans. He stood on the bridge, and watched the small boat approach through a pair of binoculars. _Yushua_. He flicked open his mobile and called Ruth.  
"He's on his way. Better get ready."  
"Copy that," she responded, and he resumed his observation. As the boat got closer, he could make out the lone man standing erect at the helm. He would only have a few hours to break his agent and manipulate him to his will. To do so, he needed Carlisle and Appletree to stick to their promise not to disclose that they knew of Yushua's involvement in the Lockerbie incident. Harry needed to have him severely off balance, and the only way to achieve that would be through the element of surprise. He had no doubt whatsoever that Ruth would play her role to perfection. She would wear a burqa, partially to prevent Yushua from being distracted by the presence of a Western woman, but mostly to hide her identity. Harry was determined to protect her as much as possible and did not want Yushua to be able to recognise her afterwards. For the same reason he fervently hoped that it would not be necessary to go into Tripoli. If it were, he could not go alone - a couple would attract much less attention than a lone man.

The small boat came alongside the _Liverpool_, and Harry watched his agent clamber up the ladder to the main deck. Yushua looked around him cautiously, but didn't seem particularly nervous. That was good. He disappeared from view, and Harry made his way down to the meeting room after a few minutes.

The murmur of voices was audible through the closed door as he passed by, heading for the smaller room where he planned to have his meeting with Yushua. When he entered, Ruth was already there, in the process of moving a chair into the corner of the room. She turned around and he stared at her; the sight of her in full burqa unsettling him momentarily. It was strange to see the woman whose soft body had been pressed so comfortingly against his all night so garbed.  
"All right?" he finally asked.  
"Yes. It's hot in here, though," she said as she handed him an earpiece.  
The small room was airless, and Harry knew the atmosphere would become stifling once there were three of them in here, in a high state of tension. He needed it that way. They lapsed into silence, listening to the attempts of the Foreign Secretary to persuade Yushua to become their spokesman.

It soon became apparent that the whole thing was a waste of time. Yushua showed no inclination to become the mouthpiece of the West, and after forty-five minutes the talks began to wind down to a desultory end.  
Harry got up. "Our turn," he stated as he walked to the door.  
He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob and turned back to her, his face lined with apprehension. "Ruth... What I'm about to do..."  
When he faltered, she spoke up. "Sometimes we have to do what's necessary. I do understand that, Harry."  
Appeased, he nodded and walked out to wait in the corridor outside the larger meeting room.

Seconds later the door opened and his agent walked out, flushed with his success of withstanding the pressure from the British Foreign Secretary. He found his way blocked by another man, and Harry saw his expression change from one of contentment to utter shock as he recognised the man who had broken him all those years ago.  
"Hello, Yushua," Harry said meaningfully, and watched as the agent's world began to crumble around him.

_tbc_


	5. Chapter 5

**- 0 -**

_**Many men would take the death-sentence without a whimper, to escape the life-sentence which fate carries in her other hand.**_**  
- T.E. Lawrence**

**- 0 -**

_Tuesday 5 July  
HMS Liverpool_

Yushua allowed Harry to steer him into the smaller room without protest. He was in a daze, and sank down onto the chair without really noticing anything around him. The door closed with a firm thud, and with it any hope he'd harboured disappeared. As his tormentor sat down across from him, memories he'd suppressed for years surged to the forefront, violently reminding him of his capitulation all those years ago. When he lifted his head to look at the Englishman, his face was already covered in sweat, and his eyes were wide with fear.

Harry noted all this, and started speaking in English. His tone was light and somewhat curious. Ruth translated from her seat in the corner, and he registered subconsciously that her tone of voice matched his perfectly. It was a seamless performance, and he was impressed, despite being fully aware of her abilities already.  
"What did you think of the proposal of our Foreign Secretary?"  
Yushua eyed him with desperation, and Harry could see he was trying to figure out what Harry wanted and to pre-empt him.  
The agent licked his suddenly dry lips. "It is a wise proposition," he lied through his teeth. "I think I can sell it to my Leader."  
Harry regarded him incredulously. "Really? That surprises me. Is the eminent Brother Leader so weak-willed, that he will listen to the proposals of the Western devil?" His voice had acquired a mocking note, once again perfectly imitated by Ruth. Not once had Yushua looked at her; his full attention was focussed on the man in front of him, the man he knew held his fate in his pale hands.

The agent wiped some of the sweat from his brow as he tried to buy time, and managed a smidgen of bravado. "But that is why you're here, isn't it?" he challenged. "You want to coerce me into doing your Foreign Secretary's bidding."  
"And you thought by lying to me, you could get out of it?" Harry cocked his head. "Come on, Yushua, I know when you're lying, remember?"  
Yushua's eyes darted around the room, but there was nothing to focus on, nothing to break the spell the dark gaze of his opponent was casting over him.  
"Please," he implored. "You know he won't listen to me. If you ask me to go there and tell my Leader these things he will kill me. You will sign my death warrant!"  
Harry didn't bat an eye. "Well, that would be regrettable, but it's not a deal breaker. Your life only has value in so much as you are of use to me."  
He let the thought fester for a moment or two.  
"Tell me," he continued conversationally, "what was it like living a hero's life all these years? Enjoyed the perks that came with it, did you?"

Yushua closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. He mumbled softly, but Harry heard the word 'Allah' and sprang to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor. He slammed a hand down on the table with a loud crack. "_Allah_ can't help you now! Your fate is firmly in my hands." He leaned across the table menacingly. "What does Allah think about betrayal, hmm, Yushua? Not to mention fucking an underage non-Muslim girl, and then abandoning her to raise your bastard by herself!"  
The agent said nothing, but the way he flinched told Harry that Ruth had not diluted any of his crudeness in translation. The man shrank into himself with a stricken look, so Harry backed off. He walked around the room for a bit, before coming back to the table and unhurriedly picking up his chair. Once he was seated again, he continued.  
"Perhaps we can come to an agreement," he suggested helpfully. "If you can offer me something that would demonstrate your value to us, I can speak to my Foreign Secretary, persuade her that you are better used for other purposes."  
Yushua lifted his head with a hopeless expression. "You want me to betray my people. Again," he said bitterly.  
Harry took his time before answering. "No. I want you to help me save mine."

Yushua had not expected that. "What are you talking about?"  
Harry treaded carefully. He had no information, only suspicions, but deemed that it was a gamble worth taking. "Your Leader is planning retaliatory terror attacks in Britain. I want the details of those plans."  
Surprise flickered briefly over Yushua's face, but Harry saw it.  
"I know nothing about that," the Libyan hedged.  
"Again with the lies," Harry sighed. "Don't lie, Yushua. It will only make me angry." The calmness of the statement made it all the more terrifying.  
Harry continued: "You are high up in the Intelligence structures. You are trusted by Gaddafi. You know."  
There was a sudden spark of defiance in Yushua's eyes. "So what if it's true? It's no less than you deserve for killing innocent Libyans with your bombs."  
Harry's face hardened. He stood abruptly, walked around the table and leaned on it right next to Yushua. He could smell the man's fear. "You're going to claim the moral high ground? Seriously? Because let's think for a moment why you're in this precarious situation in the first place. You carried out your Leader's plans to blow up a civilian plane _full _of innocent people. We, at least, kill the innocent in error. _You_lot do so by design."

Silence descended on the room, and the only sound was Yushua's harsh breathing, and his sweat dripping onto the table. Harry could feel his own sweat run down his spine, and he longed for a breath of fresh air, and to be away from this oppressive room stale with body odour. But not yet. He was close, he could sense it. If he played the last card he held correctly, he would get what he wanted from his agent. Moving around the table back to his chair, he spoke more softly.  
"Look at me, Yusif."  
The use of his real name once again threw the other man off-balance, and he lifted his gaze back to Harry's almost involuntarily.  
"I believe that you don't condone the use of violence against innocents. That's why you are so angry about the bombs falling on your cities. And that's why you helped us catch the man who blew up that plane all those years ago. You are a good man. I'm asking you to do the right thing once again. If not for the undeserving infidels-" he pulled an envelope out of his pocket and retrieved the photographs from it, and spread them out on the table, "-then for your own flesh and blood."  
The colour drained from Yushua's face as he stared at the images. Harry continued mercilessly. "Your daughter and her mother live in London, Yusif. Who's to say they won't be among the innocents killed in these retaliation attacks?"

The Libyan's eyes were riveted on the photographs. A number of emotions played across his face; belligerence, shame, pride, love and finally wonder. He reached out with a shaking hand and slowly drew a photograph of his daughter, now a grown woman, to him. Harry daren't look around, but irrationally believed that he could feel Ruth's gaze burning reproachfully into his back. If the agent didn't fold, he would have to play his final card, the one he truly did not want to play. He'd have to threaten the daughter directly.

After an eternity Yushua looked up, defeat in his expression, and Harry knew that he had won. "I don't know all the details. I know that five men have left on a ship, bound for England, and that there are five high profile targets identified."  
His capitulation released the tension permeating the room fractionally. Harry was careful not to show any reaction. Now that he had his man where he wanted him, he could not afford to relax his hold until he had squeezed every last drop of information from him.  
"What ship?" he asked, all business.  
"I don't know."  
"The identities of the men?"  
Yushua shook his head.  
"At the very least you must know what the targets are," Harry pressed, his voice coloured by disbelief.  
"Please," the agent pleaded, "I'm not lying. I didn't want to know the details." It was an oblique admission that Harry was right about Yushua's aversion to such actions.  
The spook believed him. He pondered all the options, and felt his own hope that they wouldn't have to go into Tripoli fade away. He stared at the Libyan unblinkingly.  
"But you can find out."

- 0 -

Ruth leant against the railing, lifting her face to the gentle breeze that stirred across the ocean. It was late night, and the stars were out in force. They carpeted the heavens above her, their brilliance undiminished in the absence of other sources of light. She felt isolated, drifting in the middle of the Mediterranean, with no land or other ships in sight. It was cool and refreshing out on deck, where the breeze alleviated the last heat of the day still lingering in the air. The gentle movement of the ship beneath her feet was gradually soothing her tumultuous thoughts. She kept reliving the developments of the last few hours, and Harry's ruthless interrogation of his agent. Even though he never touched the man, it had been a chilling performance and a stark reminder what he was capable of. But that wasn't what disturbed her most. It was her own reaction, or lack of it, towards that performance that gave her pause. She should be appalled at the cold-blooded dismantling of another human being that she had witnessed, but instead she felt only admiration and a sense of accomplishment at her own role in the events. And that scared her.

She had avoided Harry ever since, confused by her emotions and unsure how to explain her feelings to him. It was unfair; she had seen the pained resignation on his face when she'd walked out on him after Yushua's departure, and knew that he thought she despised him for what he'd done. She just didn't know what to say. The clichéd 'it's not you, it's me' was hardly going to be convincing. A shape materialised out of the dark and took up station on her left, and she turned her head, expecting it to be Harry, but it was not.  
"It's nights like these that make me love my job," Robert stated conversationally.  
Ruth managed to conjure up a polite smile in response, but it was half-hearted. She didn't feel like company, and wasn't about to encourage a long conversation.  
The Commander continued, unperturbed. "I just left Harry in his room. Brooding, with what's left of my Ardbeg for company."  
When she didn't show any reaction, he turned towards her. "Harry's talent for interrogation came to the fore when we were in Northern Ireland together. I could never understand how a man with his sure moral sense could be so good at something so ugly. It still baffles me to this day. Most other interrogators I have come to know have a mean streak in them, which the job allows them to satisfy. But I don't think Harry does."  
He was trying to provoke her into a response, and it worked.

"No," Ruth agreed after a moment's silence, unable not to defend Harry. "He's just very good at switching off his emotions."  
She lifted her head defiantly. "I don't judge him for doing his job, if that's what you're implying."  
Robert watched her steadily. "Then why does he think that you do?"  
She turned her head away. "It's complicated. Between us," she explained rather ineloquently.  
He smirked. "When isn't it, where men and women are concerned?" Pushing himself upright, he studied her for a moment. "But in the end, complications are overcome by those who are brave enough to confront them. And tomorrow, the two of you are going to infiltrate a war zone and face untold dangers," he said meaningfully.  
After letting his words sink in, he added, "Goodnight, Ruth," and ambled away, leaving her to stare after him wordlessly.  
She stood motionless for many minutes more, thinking about what he'd said, and about the history between her and Harry. Eventually her thoughts came to the previous night, and his confessions and uncertainties, and how good it had felt to be held closely against him all night, knowing that her presence meant so much to him. How, in the end, it made her happy to make _him _happy. She turned and walked off purposefully.

He opened the door to her knock, and regarded her with sadness and apprehension. All the way here she had contemplated what she would say to him, but her carefully composed phrases deserted her upon seeing the look on his face. She blurted out what was in her heart.  
"I am so afraid that I'm losing all that is good about me to this job."  
It took a few seconds for her words to sink in, to break through the defences he'd built up in anticipation of her disapproval. His eyes flooded with relief and concern, and he pulled her into his arms and closed the door. She burrowed into his solidity and he hugged her tightly, murmuring assurances into her hair.  
"I won't allow it to happen, Ruth. I swear."  
She held onto him, allowing him to anchor her, and let herself believe him.

- 0 -

_Wednesday 6 July, midnight_

A small group of people were gathered in the bowels of the ship, looking at a sleek, low-slung craft with a dull matt finish. Robert was in full Commander mode as he listened to the pilot of the craft, a young SAS soldier whose badge gave his surname as Benson, explain the procedure for landing people on the beach.  
The commanding officer of the SAS contingent was also present, interjecting occasionally to clarify a statement or give additional information. The group was completed by Harry and Ruth, dressed in lightweight, neutrally coloured clothes suitable for tourists. If the young soldier tasked with landing them on the beach had reservations about the ability of his two passengers to pull it off, he kept it to himself. He had been drilled beforehand not to ask any questions, but it was not too difficult to figure out that the two people standing before him must be spooks.  
"It won't be a comfortable ride, I'm afraid," he said apologetically. "We'll be packed in there like sardines, lying almost flat on our backs."  
Harry nodded. "What about radar?" he asked Robert.  
"We think their radar stations were taken out in the bombings, but even if they are still somehow operable, this craft is designed to be hard to pick up. I'll take the _Liverpool_ in as close as I can without waking the natives, and we'll launch from there. You're looking at about two hours in the landing craft, so we'll time it to get you to shore shortly before daybreak."  
"Okay." Harry turned to Ruth. "Do we have everything?"  
She indicated the bag at her feet. "Camera, guide book, phrase book, dollars. We'll look like proper tourists."  
"Good. Let's get going, then, Commander," Harry said, turning to Robert. The two friends looked at each other before Robert held out his hand. "Good hunting, Harry, Ruth."  
He shook both their hands before turning on his heel and leaving for the bridge.

Harry and Ruth's eyes met, and held in a long, charged moment. His mouth quirked into a small, intimate smile. Ignoring the other men present, he held out his hand to her. "Shall we?"  
She smiled back, and placed her hand in his without hesitation. Their fingers laced together and she squeezed his hand.  
"Let's go."

_tbc_


	6. Chapter 6

**- 0 -**

_**Half a calamity is better than a whole one.**_**  
- T.E. Lawrence**

**- 0 –**

_Thursday 7 July, before dawn  
Tripoli_

The ride through the breakers was bone-jarring, and Ruth gritted her teeth. The motion, added to the butterflies swarming in her stomach, made her feel slightly seasick. She was nervous about what lay ahead. It was one thing to go into the field back in England, with the back-up of the whole team and the billions of pounds' worth of equipment that MI5 had at its disposal. But this was different. She and Harry were on their own, with only each other to rely on. They had no way of communicating with the _HMS Liverpool _once they reached land, as the Nato Alliance had destroyed all electronic communication capability in their bombing campaigns. If they risked sending any other type of communication, they would give away their presence and their position in Tripoli immediately.

All this meant that they were dependent on a pre-arranged schedule for their extraction. They would be picked up by helicopter on the outskirts of the city just before midnight. If they failed to make that rendezvous, they would be stranded until they could find their own way out. Ruth was also well aware that if there had been any other option, Harry would not have brought her along. But he needed her linguistic skills, as well as the 'silhouette' a couple would provide as opposed to two men or a single man. Because of all these complications, Harry exuded a calm, focussed intensity and it provided her with much-needed reassurance that things would work out. She knew, unequivocally, that for the hours they would be in Tripoli, Harry was not the man who had been so supportive the previous night. He was no longer her lover; instead he was the defender of the realm, and all else paled into insignificance beside that obligation.

"Brace for beaching!" Benson called out, and they did as they were told. She glanced at Harry, but could not make out his expression in the darkness. There was a slight reduction in speed as Benson pulled back on the throttle, waiting for the right moment to make his run onto the beach. A wave lifted them and he gunned the craft forward at an angle. It ran onto the sand with a hard bump and a low grumble of the engine, which Benson killed immediately. By the time Ruth had found the release of the harness strapping her into the seat, the SAS soldier was out of the craft and crouched on the sand, scanning the surroundings with his carbine at the ready. Harry was over the side quickly after with a similar weapon in hand. She grabbed the bag and dropped over the side behind Harry's bulk, and froze. They held their positions for long minutes, tensely waiting, listening. The only sound was the breaking of the waves on the beach. Once he was satisfied that there were no surprise reception parties waiting, Harry tapped the young soldier on the shoulder and handed him his weapon. He helped push the craft back into the water before taking Ruth's elbow and leading her across the sand towards the tall hotel about half a mile away. Behind them they heard the almost inaudible growl as the craft's engine fired and faded quickly into the distance. They were on their own, in enemy territory.

There was a bite in the air and Ruth fleetingly pondered the extremes of living in the desert – as soon as the sun climbed above the horizon the mercury would rise mercilessly, but in the pre-dawn hour it was chilly. She shivered in her lightweight clothing as she scurried after Harry, who was headed for the shelter of the shack where one rented beach chairs in front of the hotel. He jimmied the lock effortlessly and ushered her inside before closing the door quietly behind them.  
"Best wait here until people start to stir in the hotel," he murmured softly.  
She nodded and rubbed her arms in an attempt to get warm. Harry rummaged in their holdall and took out the camera bag. He removed the camera and reached inside once again, bringing out a gun. Ruth's eyes widened; she had been unaware of its presence. Harry looked around the small shack and moved over to seat himself astride a bench against the wall, then glanced at his watch. They had another two hours to kill. Ruth still stood in the middle of the room, rubbing her arms.  
"Come here," he commanded softly. When she did so, he pulled her down on the bench between his legs and wrapped his arms around her to keep her warm. They stayed like that, quietly waiting for the time to pass. The gun lay within easy reach on the bench next to Harry.

- 0 -

_Two hours later_

The lobby of the Marriott was busy as Harry and Ruth strolled in casually. Most of the oil companies doing business in Libya booked their people into this hotel, and there were a number of men and women in business attire milling around, evidently waiting for transport to their offices. They went up to the reception desk, and Harry enquired about booking a room for two nights. He handed over their cover passports, and whilst the clerk had one eye on completing the documentation, Ruth paged through the guide book and quizzed him on what sights were worth seeing.  
"But is it _safe_ to move around the city?" she sighed mournfully, putting on her best upper class accent.  
"Oh yes, Ma'am. As long as you stay away from military buildings and political gatherings, it's quite safe. The Old City in particular; I think the NATO countries know they will lose the goodwill of the people if they should bomb the Old City."  
Ruth paged around some more. Harry grunted impatiently, "Look, do you offer guided tours through the Old City?"  
"Yes, sir, there is a daily tour. It departs from here in an hour's time." He handed over a pamphlet. The Gurgi Mosque featured prominently on the cover.  
"I think it will be better to join a tour than blunder around on our own, darling," Harry said to Ruth, and thrust the pamphlet at her.  
"Can you book us on today's tour?"  
Ruth rolled her eyes, and leaned in to the clerk to confide, "He has no spirit of adventure."  
Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me? We're here, aren't we?"  
"Yes, dear," Ruth responded, "but only because you have a business meeting tomorrow."  
"For God's sake," Harry muttered with a long-suffering look at the clerk. "Come on, we're wasting this man's time."  
He marched her off across the lobby, and the clerk watched them go with a smirk, convinced that he'd just met a businessman and his wife of many years, looking for ways to kill time.

- 0 -

They trailed along with the guided tour for hours on end. Ruth wished that she could be here as a tourist rather than a spook, because Tripoli had a long history dating back to Roman times, and normally she would have found the tour fascinating. Today, however, she struggled to concentrate on the guide's words. Harry played the bored husband to perfection, but she knew that behind the sunglasses his eyes missed nothing. He noted the presence of every soldier, every likely threat and every possible escape route wherever they went. There were fifteen people on the tour, and Ruth was grateful for the number, as it diluted the attention they received from the guide and their fellow tourists. Harry discouraged conversation by giving short stiff answers to any direct questions, and the others soon lost interest in the boring English couple.

And now, at long last, it was time to visit the Gurgi Mosque. Ruth tamped down her impatience when the guide gathered the little group around him across the road from the mosque, and launched into a detailed explanation of its history. Suddenly she just wanted it all to be over. Harry lifted a water bottle to his lips and took a long draught, before wiping the sweat from his brow. She was glad to notice how steady his hands were. The guide moved on to the do's and dont's of behaviour within a mosque, whilst Harry slowly turned his head and observed activity up and down the street. All appeared normal. As the guide began to lead them towards the mosque, Harry leaned in and put his lips to Ruth's ear.  
"As soon as we have the information we should split from the tour group. I'll fake a work call and we'll take a taxi to one of the outlying suburbs, and lie low."  
She nodded, and they followed the guide into the cool interior.

Inside it was beautiful, but Ruth hardly noticed. The group was about to split into men and women so that they could enter the separate prayer halls, and she and Harry hung back. When the guide turned his back, they ducked behind a pillar and swiftly moved towards the western wall, where Yushua had told them they would find a plaque indicating the tomb of the mosque's founder. Their shoeless feet made no sound as they hurried along, making sure to keep the pillars between them and the rest of their group. They reached the wall and Harry moved along it swiftly, his eyes seeking ahead. He found the plaque halfway down the hall. They stopped in front of it and pretended to study the tomb. Yushua had said that he would wedge the information behind the plaque, and Harry stepped forward. Just as he was about to begin probing around it with his fingers, Ruth nudged him, and he noticed the Imam bearing down on them.  
"Bollocks," Harry muttered, and Ruth had no time to think about the inappropriateness of his language before the Imam was upon them.

Harry stepped in front of Ruth, blocking the Imam's view of her. He greeted the man deferentially, mentally preparing an excuse for their presence in this part of the mosque. The Imam did not give him a chance to speak further.  
"You must leave immediately. There is a political march coming this way, and it will be better for Westerners to be clear of this area before it arrives."  
Harry thought frantically; all they needed was a few unattended seconds to search for the information. "Thank you," he responded. "The rest of our group is by the main entrance, will you warn them at once?"  
"It has already been done, your tour guide sent me to look for you."  
"Oh, right then," Harry said feebly, cursing the sense of responsibility of the guide.

Ruth stepped out from behind Harry, and addressed the Imam in Arabic. "May I ask you a question while we walk?" she asked meekly.  
The Imam was greatly surprised to hear her speak Arabic so well. "Of course," he responded, and as Ruth moved off he followed to be able to hear what she was saying. Harry gave them a few seconds, before turning back and hurriedly searching the plaque. He found the small memory stick wedged into a hollow in the marble at the bottom. After removing it and slipping it into his pocket, he quickly caught up with Ruth and the Imam, and followed them to the door. She looked at him over her shoulder, and he gave her a slight nod.

As they neared the main entrance, they could hear increased noise from the street outside. Their little tour group stood huddled together just inside the door, fear etched on their faces.  
"We need to make a run for the bus," their guide announced.  
Harry looked at him incredulously. "That's crazy. What will we do once we reach it? You won't be able to drive anywhere, and we'll be trapped inside. We need to stay on foot, and move towards the hotel."  
A few of the others agreed with Harry, but the guide insisted, and a heated argument broke out. Out of the corner of his eye Harry spotted two men in military uniforms moving toward the mosque.  
He didn't wait around to hear what the group decided. "We have to move," he told Ruth urgently, and steered her into the street.

They were immediately swept up in bedlam. People swirled past, waving banners and posters, but Harry couldn't figure out whether it was against or in support of Gaddafi. He grabbed hold of Ruth's hand. "We need to move towards Al Kamush Road," he shouted, aware that the masses were moving in the opposite direction. It would be impossible to go against the tide. He stepped into the crowd and allowed it to sweep them along.  
"We'll take the next left and try to double round via the smaller alleys."  
Ruth nodded, and held on to his hand tightly. If she lost him now, they would spend hours trying to find each other again.  
"What are they saying?" Harry asked. She listened for a moment to the slogans being shouted all around them, and swallowed hard when she realised what was going on.  
"It's an anti-government rally," she said with trepidation.  
Harry's face was grim, and he strained his neck to look down the street, but he couldn't see over the heads of those in front of him. He lifted his eyes to the rooftops, scanning them frantically, and spotted the soldiers spread out along them with cold dread. He pulled Ruth to his other side, putting himself between her and the marksmen he could see.

Harry desperately looked around, trying to find a place that would afford cover from the men on the roofs. An alarming thought had occurred to him – the possibility that any Westerners caught up in the crowd would be seen as instigators and targeted. They were coming up to the first side street, but his hope of escape was dashed by the armoured vehicle blocking it.  
"They're hemming them in."  
Ruth almost lost her footing as they were shoved hard from the back, and Harry hauled her upright. He concentrated his efforts on keeping her on her feet and shielding her as much as possible from the excited people around them.  
And then the first shot cracked over their heads. There was a moment of stunned calm, during which the crowds before them parted slightly and Harry spotted a narrow alley to their left. In a split second total chaos erupted, as people started shoving in all directions, screaming and shouting even louder. The gunfire picked up, and Harry initially thought that the shots were aimed to pass over their heads, but then he saw a few people go down. He roughly shoved Ruth in the direction of the alley, unscrupulously shouldering people out of the way to get there. Ruth heard him grunt and felt him stumble behind her, but then he was pressing hard against her back again, and they broke through and into the alley.  
"Move!" he ordered, and when she looked round she saw him grimace in pain. But he gave her no time to react, instead urging her on relentlessly until they burst into a quieter street.

They stopped momentarily to get their bearings, and that's when she noticed the blood.

_tbc_


	7. Chapter 7

**- 0 -**

_**To me an unnecessary action, or shot, or casualty, was not only waste but sin.**_**  
- T.E. Lawrence**

**- 0 –**

_Thursday 7 July, late afternoon  
Tripoli_

The blood was slowly soaking through his shirt at the back.  
"Oh God, Harry, you're bleeding!"  
She tried to look at it but he grabbed her roughly. "I'm all right, Ruth. There's no time. We need to get off the street."  
The colour was slowly draining from his face and he was breathing raggedly, and she knew it was much more serious than he was willing to admit. "Harry-"  
"Give me the gun." He cut short her protest and held out his hand for it. His expression brooked no opposition, and she delved into the bag and fished it out from under the camera. Harry shoved it in his waistband and dropped his shirt over it, then looked around.  
"We need transport."

Ruth's eyes fell on a car parked about fifty metres in front of them. The window was open, and there was no-one inside. She pointed it out to Harry and they set off towards it. They passed it once and he glanced inside, but to his disappointment there were no keys in the ignition.  
"I'll have to hot-wire it," he told Ruth, but she stopped him.  
Remembering George's habit to hide the keys in the visor, she reached inside and tipped it down. The keys fell into her hand. Harry managed a pained smile at her.  
"You drive," he half-ordered, half-requested before moving quickly around the car and getting into the passenger seat.  
Ruth started the engine and drove off. She noticed Harry holding the gun in his lap. It seemed to be shaking slightly, and when she glanced at his face, it was pale and covered in sweat.  
"We need to get you to a hospital," she announced decisively.  
"No!" He used all the authority he could muster. "Think it through, Ruth. A British man hurt in an anti-government rally – it's a propaganda coup for Gaddafi."  
"Okay, I'll take the fastest route out of the city-"  
"No," he said again. "There'll be road blocks everywhere. Drive to the market, we'll dump the car there," he instructed.  
Ruth wanted to argue, but she knew that he was right. Fear began to settle in her stomach as she realised the implications; he would not be able to receive treatment until they were extracted at midnight. And she suspected his wound was too serious for that. To quell her rising alarm, she concentrated on her driving and getting them to their destination in one piece.

The market was a good choice. It was situated on the edge of one of the lower-class neighbourhoods, which afforded the opportunity to lose themselves in the maze of narrow streets. She stopped the car, and Harry had to struggle to get out. The passenger seat sported a large blood stain, and Ruth's fear increased ten-fold. Harry scanned their surroundings, aware that he would not be able to stay on his feet much longer. They needed a place to hide until it was time to move to the pick-up rendezvous. His vision was beginning to blur, but he spotted the outline of a burnt-out two-storey building one block over.  
"There." He pointed it out to Ruth and started to walk towards it as fast as he could manage.  
They reached the building without incident, and Harry leant his weight against the boarded up door. It didn't budge, and he was too weak to put in a greater effort.  
"Let me," Ruth said, fighting down the panic at the amount of blood on his shirt, and with a strength borne of desperation kicked open the door.

Their harsh breathing was loud in the emptiness of the building, and the air reeked of soot. The light was dim, and what little they could see had been blackened by the fire.  
"Upstairs," Harry gasped and moved in the direction of the stairs.  
"The upper floors will be unsound," Ruth objected. "It's dangerous to go up there."  
Harry supported himself against a wall. "I know. It will stop others from looking there. Come on."  
He began moving up the steps slowly. He got about halfway before swaying ominously, and Ruth grabbed his arm and slung it round her shoulders. Harry stifled a moan and gritted his teeth against the pain. She got him up the rest of the stairs, and he nodded towards the wall opposite them. He knew instinctively that he would not be able to leave this place, and wanted to be in a position from which he could cover the stairs.

Ruth gingerly lowered him into a sitting position against the wall, and his eyes squeezed shut against the dizziness and agony.  
"Let me have a look," she said gently, fighting hard to keep the panic out of her voice.  
He turned slightly and she peeled the shirt upwards slowly. The blood made it stick to his skin, and she was careful not to start the bleeding all over again by pulling it up too quickly. A neat, small hole was situated on the left of his back, just under his ribs. Ruth realised that it must have been a ricochet, as there was no exit wound, indicating that the bullet had lost some of its velocity by the time it hit him. All the same, there had to be internal damage, and the rapidity at which he had weakened was not a good sign. She manufactured a bandage and press from her headscarf and a wad of tissues, hoping to at least stop the external bleeding. When she was done, Harry leaned back against the wall, exhausted by the few movements. She helped him to drink some water, and he could see the fear in her eyes.  
He fumbled for her hand. "It's all right. I'm tougher than I look," he tried to reassure her, and it earned him a wan smile.  
"Now, let's see what's on this memory stick."

Ruth inserted it into the small palm-reader they'd brought along and scanned through the information. She tensed, and looked at Harry worriedly. "The attacks are scheduled for tomorrow."  
He closed his eyes. "The targets? And the bombers?"  
"It's all here. Erin and Dimitri should be able to stop it with this information."  
Harry lifted his chin determinedly. "Then you must go. Make sure you reach that rendezvous and get the information out."  
She stared at him in horror. "No, Harry. You're coming with me-"  
"No." He couldn't muster more than a low rumble. "Please, Ruth. You know I can't. We won't make it if I come with you. You have to go by yourself." He looked into her eyes imploringly. "I have every faith in you. You can do this."  
She shook her head adamantly. "No. I can't leave you here. You can't ask me to do that!" In her desperation she let a note of anger slip into her voice.  
Harry's eyes stayed on her, and he didn't say anything for a few seconds. His breathing had become shallow, she noticed with concern.  
"Ruth," he said finally, very gently. "Tomorrow five bombs will go off in Britain. Think of all the lives lost. Women, children. All innocent."  
"I don't care!" she responded vehemently, "I'm not leaving you here to die. I'm _not_."

Even as the words left her mouth, she recognised their hypocrisy. She thought back to George and Nico, and the events of Albany, and how much easier it was to do the right thing when it was your own life on the line rather than those of people you loved.  
There was such empathy in Harry's eyes as he gazed at her, that it brought tears to hers.  
"I know that's not true, Ruth. You do care. That's the best part of you, and I won't allow you to lose it to this. For me."  
Outside the sun was dipping towards the horizon, and there was renewed urgency in his voice. "You must go. Now."  
Ruth cradled his face in her hands, and kissed him softly, and he could taste her tears. When she pulled back to look at him, to study his features intently as she stroked his face, his hands came up and gripped her wrists.  
"Ruth," he said imploringly, "I-"  
"Don't!" she snapped sharply and pulled back. "Don't you dare say it now. I'm coming back for you, so you fight to be here when I do. And then you can say it. Do you hear me, Harry? You be here!"  
He smiled the faintest of smiles, and nodded weakly. "Go, Ruth. Be careful."  
She pressed the gun into his hands, made sure the water was within easy reach and stood, looking down at him one last time. Without another word, she turned and left.

Harry stared after her, his heart breaking. He was immensely proud of her, of the strength of character she had just shown. He wasn't sure he would have been able to leave her behind, had their positions been reversed. And for a split-second he felt abandoned. It was irrational and grossly unfair, but he couldn't help it. The part of him that had hoped for many years with Ruth at his side was angry at this incongruous end to it all. Because despite her assurances that she would come back for him, the chances of her being able to do so was small. She would need support to do it and he hoped that Robert would not give it to her. His moment of small-mindedness had passed in the blink of an eye, and now all he could think was: _Don't put yourself in danger for me. Don't do it, Ruth._

He pulled the clip out of the gun and checked how many rounds he had. Twelve. As the pain intensified and the edges of his vision began to turn dark, he reflected on the best use of those twelve bullets. Could he allow Gaddafi's forces to capture him? If they did, sooner or later they would find out who he really was, and it would cause untold damage to Britain. Perhaps one of those bullets was better kept for himself…

- 0 -

Ruth only became aware of her surroundings when a woman stopped her with a hand on her arm, and asked concernedly whether she was all right. It was almost fully dark, and she realised she must have walked through the streets for almost an hour by now. That Harry had been on his own for that long, and she wondered with a stab of fear whether he was still alive. When the woman handed her a tissue, she became aware that there were tears running down her cheeks. Wordlessly she accepted it and dabbed at her face, then looked at the other woman and her surroundings properly for the first time. She was deep into the warren of narrow, labyrinthine streets of the suburb, and had unconsciously been working her way towards the edge of the city. The woman before her had a kind face, and was about her age. Beyond her shoulder Ruth noticed a sign for a clinic.

Khadija Arhouma cast an expert eye over the woman in front of her. She noticed a couple of things: the woman was clearly in emotional distress, but appeared to be uninjured despite the blood on her hands. And she was a Westerner. That afternoon's protest march had received broad coverage on local radio and TV, and Khadija recalled how Gaddafi was crowing about Western instigators and had paraded a terrified French couple in front of the cameras. She glanced around, but the street was quiet and she could not see anyone paying attention to them.  
"Come," she said, and putting an arm around the woman, led her away.  
The action brought Ruth back to her senses, and she resisted. "Where are you taking me?"  
Khadija looked at her, surprised by the faultless Arabic in which Ruth addressed her.  
"To my house. The government is looking for Westerners involved in the protest march. They will take you and accuse you of plotting against them if they find you on the street like this."  
"Why are you helping me?" Ruth asked as she reluctantly began to walk again.  
"Because you need help. And because I know that this protest march was a local initiative."  
She said no more, and left Ruth to ponder her words as she swiftly guided her along the street.

When they reached the house, Khadija led Ruth quietly around the back. "Wait here. I will let you in soon. I don't want my husband and son to see you."  
She disappeared, and Ruth was left standing in the dark. Time was passing by, and she had a little over two hours to reach the rendezvous. Her thoughts kept going back to Harry, and her imagination, heightened by the peril they were in, conjured up all sorts of terrible scenarios. She felt panic rise anew, and determinedly forced herself to think about the situation calmly. Harry was no longer there to guide her; she would have to find a way out on her own. And the sooner she did so, the sooner she could come back for him. The thought sharpened her focus on the task at hand. By the time Khadija opened the door to let her into the kitchen, she had a plan. The Libyan woman had barely closed the door when Ruth started speaking in a low, urgent voice.  
"My name is Ruth, and I work for the British government."

She didn't stop speaking for ten minutes, and by the time she finished, Khadija was staring at her, shocked into silence. The two women stood squared off as each contemplated the consequences if Khadija refused what Ruth had asked of her. And both came to the conclusion that those consequences were unacceptable. Khadija indicated the chair at the kitchen table. "Sit, Ruth," she said. "I have to make some calls. Don't worry, the men won't come into the kitchen. You won't be seen here." With those words, she disappeared for the second time that night. Once she was alone, Ruth was about to let her head sink into her hands when she noticed Harry's blood still on them. Bile rose in her throat and she got up quickly, only just reaching the basin before she retched. Afterwards, she opened the tap and let the water rinse out the basin, then mechanically washed her hands, watching, mesmerised, as Harry's blood swirled down the drain. She was physically and emotionally exhausted. It had been a gamble to tell Khadija almost everything, and for all Ruth knew she was currently in the other room calling the authorities. But she could no longer summon the energy to care. Besides, there were simply no other alternatives left to her. It was her only option to get out with the information and ensure that everything was not in vain.

- 0 -

_Thirty minutes later_

Apart from Ruth, four other women had gathered in the kitchen. Khadija had introduced them all but Ruth did not have the mental strength left to remember their names. There was Khadija's daughter, a beautiful young girl with dark liquid eyes and a sensual mouth, and two older women, one of whom was heavily pregnant. The other worked at the clinic with Khadija. A number of plans were discussed and discarded before a course of action was finally decided on. The pregnant woman shepherded Ruth out the back door and along a little alley at the back of the house to her own a few doors down. She left Ruth in the shadows, and disappeared inside to make a phone call.

The plan was relatively simple. Khadija was a qualified midwife, and would use the phone call from her pregnant friend to get out of the house and take the car without suspicion. She soon pulled to a stop in front of her friend's house, and popped the boot before walking inside. Ruth, who had been crouching behind a low wall nearby, dashed to the car and clambered into the boot, closing it softly over her head. Meanwhile, Khadija had examined her friend and declared that they had to go to the clinic for a check-up. Ruth heard the car doors slam, and the car began to move off. She desperately hoped that the plan would work, as she had less than an hour to reach the rendezvous. Her fingers found the memory stick in her pocket, and she wondered at how so small a thing could cause such trouble. As she lay in the dark, she thought again about Harry, and her heart broke at the knowledge that he was similarly in darkness, suffering alone.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the car stopped, and she heard Khadija say, "Good evening, sir." She tensed, knowing immediately that they had been stopped at a roadblock. Khadija was rapidly explaining that she was a midwife, and needed to get her patient to the clinic as soon as possible. The other woman added some convincing groans of pain. The soldier wavered, causing Khadija to say sharply, "Do you want to catch the baby here in the street?"  
The young man blanched, and promptly signalled for the barrier to be lifted, allowing Khadija to drive through. When they were a safe distance away, Ruth heard the two women laugh wildly, and suddenly Harry's voice filled her head. _That's adrenaline withdrawal_. She smiled briefly, before she had to swallow hard against the tears that once again threatened to fall.

They were stopped three times before reaching the edge of the city. Mercifully the 'pregnant woman in distress' routine worked every time, and the car wasn't searched. Once they reached a deserted stretch of road, Khadija stopped and let Ruth out of the boot. She used a small GPS device to guide them to the rendezvous, which was beyond a low ridge of hills a few miles into the desert. When they stopped and Khadija switched off the engine, they could hear the helicopter approaching. They were just in time. The three women watched wordlessly as it skimmed low across the terrain before landing close by. Ruth turned and hugged Khadija and her friend, unable to find the words to express her gratitude. She took off her ring and pressed it into Khadija's hand.  
"You won't forget?" she asked anxiously.  
Khadija's fingers closed around the ring and she shook her head. "I won't forget," she promised.

Ruth crossed the few yards to the helicopter and was helped in by the co-pilot. It lifted into the air immediately, and she stared numbly out of the window as the dark countryside passed by below. Tripoli was a glow on the horizon as the pilot skirted it at a healthy distance. Her eyes never left it for as long as it was possible, her thoughts on the man she had left behind in that burnt-out building.

The man who was in all likelihood already dead. She buried her face in her hands and cried.

_tbc_


	8. Chapter 8

**- 0 -**

_**Suicide was a thing impossible, and death no grief.**_**  
- T.E. Lawrence**

**- 0 –**

_Friday 8 July, just after midnight  
HMS Liverpool_

The big H on the _Liverpool's_ helipad was lit up, and the pilot put the Lynx down right in the middle of it. Ruth got out wearily and looked up to see Robert waiting for her. The expression on her face told him all he needed to know, and he looked away sadly.  
"What happened?" he asked as he fell into step next to her.  
"We got caught in the middle of a protest march. The government forces started shooting at the crowd, and Harry was hit."  
Her voice caught. "I had to leave him behind; he was too weak. We wouldn't have made the rendezvous otherwise."  
To her own ears she sounded defensive, as though she felt the need to justify what she'd done. Robert noticed, but didn't comment on it. He knew from experience that at that moment nothing would lessen her guilt.  
"He was still alive when you left him?" he enquired, his heart breaking for her and for his friend.  
Ruth nodded, but avoided eye contact. They had reached Harry's room.  
"I need to send this information through, then we can talk."

Robert stood just inside the door, watching silently as Ruth contacted the Grid and transmitted the information.  
"That ship has already docked," Tariq informed her, before putting Erin on the line.  
"Where's Harry?" Erin demanded. "We need instructions."  
Ruth lost it. "Harry is busy right now," she snapped. "Come on, Erin. You know what to do. Face recognition to find these five men. Deploy CO19 to all five targets. Make sure that they haven't planted any of the explosive devices at any of the targets yet. If they haven't, set traps for them at each target. And if there is the slightest suspicion that they realise they've been found out, take them out before they have the chance to detonate the bombs wherever they are. You have about six hours to get all this done, so get moving!"  
She broke the connection before Erin could respond and sat, drained, staring blankly at the table.

Robert gave her a few seconds before saying gently, "Ruth."  
She turned to him.  
"Was he badly hurt?"  
"Yes."  
He had to strain to hear her.  
"There was a lot of blood, and I think…" She took a deep breath to steady herself. "I think he's bleeding internally as well."  
The Commander rubbed a hand over his face. He really didn't want to ask her this next question and upset her further, but he had important decisions to make, and he needed as much information as possible in order to make the right ones.  
"And the chances that he will still be alive if we go back for him are…"  
"Small," Ruth confessed immediately, before lifting defiant eyes to his.  
"But small is not zero, and I promised him I'd come for him. And I will."  
Robert thought he finally understood why his friend had fallen for this woman. "Carlisle will never approve it," he pointed out.  
"Carlisle can go to hell!" Ruth responded vehemently. "If Gaddafi's men find him, they will figure out who and what he is, and it will damage the UK's image immeasurably. And Harry is your friend, how can you-"  
"Ruth!" His voice was sharp and commanding and got her attention immediately. She stopped talking, defeated, believing that he was about to refuse to help her.

He sighed. "You don't have to convince me," he stated, surprising her. Unconsciously he touched the scar on his cheek. "Harry saved my life. Back in Northern Ireland."  
He smiled mirthlessly. "And he disobeyed direct orders to do so."

The deep bond between the two men all of a sudden made sense to Ruth. "What happened?" she asked curiously.  
"The IRA lured my patrol into a trap in an abandoned farmhouse. They'd rigged the place with explosives, and when our first man went through the door, he triggered it."  
His gaze was inward, and she knew that in that moment he wasn't here with her, but back in the middle of that ugly war.  
"There were four of us, and I was the last man in the line. The blast threw me back twenty yards, and I was badly cut by shrapnel. I had never seen so much blood. Luckily I couldn't tell which was mine, and which that of the other three, who had been torn limb from limb by the blast." There was a brief pause before he continued. "I remember Tommie Salford's head flying by me."  
It was said matter-of-factly, almost with detachment, but Ruth could sense the deep emotional scars he still carried around as a result of the incident.  
"I was bleeding badly, but miraculously my rifle still worked, so I dragged myself into the outhouse and prepared to make a stand until the cavalry arrived."

He looked at her. "I was so sure they would come for me. Naively it never even crossed my mind that there would be no rescue attempt. The Provos came first, of course. It's their M.O. – booby trap a place and station some people close by. As soon as they hear the explosion, they move in to finish off or capture whoever survived. They had me pinned down, and I was weakening, but at least I took out a couple of bastards who ventured into range. I was running out of ammunition fast, though. And that's when Harry showed up, all alone, in this clapped-out old Land Rover. He drove it right up to the door of the outhouse, and held them off while I struggled in. Somehow he got us out of there alive, although I have no idea how. I passed out as soon as I'd got in."  
His eyes held hers. "It was only much later that I found out that he'd been expressly ordered not to launch a rescue operation – that the Brass was convinced we were all dead. Harry refused, saying they owed it to us to make sure. When no-one would listen, he took matters into his own hands and came after us himself."  
Ruth smiled slightly at that, her heart swelling with pride and love for him. Robert's next words replaced those feelings with irrational hope.  
"So let's go to the Operations Room and start planning."

- 0 -

_Tripoli_

The clatter of the gun as it slipped out of his hand and onto the concrete floor jerked him back to consciousness. He'd been trying desperately to stay awake, to stay conscious, but it had become a losing battle. He stared at it dumbly, a dark shape in the beam of moonlight striping the floor where the roof had caved in. The barrel was pointing neatly at his foot, and suddenly he found the whole thing hilarious. He laughed at the thought that he could have shot off his own foot when he dropped the gun, knowing he'd taken the safety off earlier. A small part of his mind recognised that it was a danger sign that he should find this so funny, but what else was he to do? He couldn't breathe properly, and the lack of oxygen coupled with the blood loss was making him light-headed. It took a lot of concentration to lift his arm and retrieve the gun, and even more to focus on the glowing dials of his watch. It was past midnight. He wondered whether Ruth had got out. He'd tried to stay awake and listen for the helicopter, but he must have passed out sometime before midnight. The temperature had dropped rapidly and he was cold. He attempted to keep himself alert by making plans to get out of the city and to safety, even though he knew, deep down, that he was in no state to do anything. He was bleeding out slowly, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was tempted to simply close his eyes and drift away, to be done with all the strife and struggles of his life. But every time he did close his eyes, he would see her face, hear her voice imploring him to be there when she came back for him. He wondered if Robert would do the sensible thing and lock her in a room and ship her back to England before she could put herself in more danger in a foolish attempt to save him. His mind started to wander and he pondered fleetingly how Erin and Dimitri were getting on with stopping the terrorists. There was no longer any feeling in his legs and his fingers were beginning to tingle. These were all bad signs, and he knew it would not be long now.  
"Sorry, Ruth," he said out loud, and that's when he heard it.

Footsteps.

He squinted at the stairs, and could make out a faint glow coming up it towards him. For a moment he contemplated whether this was the proverbial light those experiencing near-death experiences always saw, but decided it was unlikely that he would hear footsteps if this were the case. The Libyans must have found him. He lifted the gun upright in his lap and trained it on the top of the stairs as best he could. The chances of him hitting anything were small, but it was better than nothing. He realised, then, that he would never be able to just give up or kill himself; that he would stubbornly hold onto the hope that he could get out of this somehow until he drew his last breath. He waited. The light did not move further up the stairs, and he wondered what they were waiting for.  
"Come on, you bastards," he mumbled, "come and get me."  
A movement in the air caught his eye, and for a split-second he feared that it was a hand grenade, before he realised that it was too small. It glittered briefly in the beam of moonlight, before hitting the concrete floor with a tinkling sound and rolling towards him. It came to a stop against his thigh. He felt for it and held it up in the moonlight, squinting at it. When he saw what it was, he felt like crying.

Ruth's ring.

A woman's voice called softly from the stairs: "Ruth. Friend. No shoot please." Two women appeared and moved towards him cautiously, and he watched them as though in a dream. He couldn't fight the darkness any longer, and let the gun slide from his unresisting fingers slowly, even as his other hand remained determinedly fisted around the ring.

- 0 -

_Sunrise  
HMS Liverpool_

Ruth stood at the railing and stared towards the horizon where a thin strip of land was visible. Staring towards Harry. She had tried to persuade Robert that they should launch an immediate rescue operation, but he had refused, pointing out all the ways in which it was a bad operational idea. Instead he had convinced her that they would go in as soon as darkness fell that night. He was right, but she still hated it. It meant that Harry would have to survive for another day, which seemed highly unlikely. Robert had tried to comfort her by saying that Harry was a fighter, and that if anyone could come out of this alive, it was him. She tried desperately to believe him, but it was hard when her last image of him kept popping into her head – his pale, sweating face, the blood, his feebleness. He would need help if he were to survive, and she fervently hoped that Khadija would keep her promise to do what she could for him.

She was driving herself crazy with thoughts of him, so she went back to his room and got in touch with the Grid, hoping to distract herself by monitoring the attempts back in England to thwart the terrorist attacks. Tariq patched her into their comms, and she followed intently as everything unfolded. Erin and Dimitri were at the two London targets, whilst CO19 was left to deal with those in Birmingham, Manchester and Southampton respectively. Things went off smoothly for the most part, assisted by the accurate information provided by Yushua. Only one of the men refused to be taken, and Dimitri was forced to kill him in the end. It was eleven o'clock by the time it was all done.

- 0 -

_Tripoli_

Khadija left the clinic to check on the Westerner. He had slipped into unconsciousness just as they'd arrived that morning, and a brief examination of his wound had confirmed to her what Ruth had suspected – that he was bleeding internally. Having got his blood type from Ruth, she had gone by the clinic and took a bag of blood, which she had hooked him up to. Her daughter had stayed with him whilst Khadija had gone back home to serve breakfast for the men, and to ensure that they didn't become suspicious. The government was offering rewards for information on the whereabouts of any Westerners that were involved in the protest march, and she was sure that her husband and son would jump at the chance to get the money. She checked the street to make sure no-one was about before entering the burnt-out building.

Her daughter was sitting by the man, singing softly to him in lieu of anything better to do.  
"How is he?" she asked as she knelt next to the girl and picked up his hand to feel his pulse. It was thready and erratic. Her daughter shook her head sadly.  
"He's getting weaker, Mama. He needs more blood."  
Khadija adjusted the blanket they had wrapped around him gently and laid a hand on his brow. He felt disturbingly cold to the touch. She turned to her daughter.  
"You're right. Go to the clinic and ask Aysha for another bag – she knows what it's for. And be careful; don't let anyone see you enter here."  
When she was alone with him, she took his hand in hers again and spoke to him softly. "You hold on for your Ruth. She needs you."  
She noticed the ring lying by his side and picked it up, then pressed it into his palm and folded his limp fingers around it. All this she did, knowing that despite her best efforts he would not last the night without surgery to stop the internal bleeding.

- 0 -

_Sunset  
HMS Liverpool_

The rescue party consisted of four people. Ruth and Robert were joined by Captain Simmons of the SAS contingent, as well as Benson, the young soldier that had piloted the landing craft that originally took them to Tripoli. Participation was strictly on a voluntary basis, and Robert had been inundated with volunteers. In the end, though, he was loath to delegate the responsibility to anyone else, and had chosen the other two for the specific skills they brought to the table. Robert checked his watch, then looked around the little group.  
"Are we all set?"  
Three heads nodded in unison.  
He turned to Ruth. "Please, Ruth, won't you reconsider? Harry will kill me if anything happens to you," he implored.  
"Harry took me along last time," she retorted. "He understood the value of having a woman there for cover. Plus, I know exactly where he is."  
He was about to argue further, when she quietly added, "I promised him."  
He stared at her for a few moments, moved by the conviction in her voice, and sighed in defeat.  
"Will the NATO Alliance play ball?" Simmons asked as he checked his gear for the umpteenth time.  
"I think so," Robert responded. "Ruth's account of the way the Libyan soldiers fired at that civilian protest march angered them, so I think it'll happen, despite the wishes of the Foreign Secretary to halt the bombings for the duration of her presence here."  
For once in his life, Robert was thankful that the French were playing a leading role in proceedings, as their Commander was quite amenable to ignoring the instructions of the British Foreign Secretary.  
"Right, let's go then."  
They moved off to where the helicopter's blades were already whirring, ready to lift off.

- 0 -

_Tripoli_

They were on the outskirts of the city, and Ruth was crouched next to Robert, her back against a stone wall, as they waited for the two SAS men to return. As they waited, Ruth reflected on the plan. Simmons would steal a four-wheel drive vehicle, and they would make their way towards the neighbourhood where Harry was. At ten o'clock the NATO Alliance would launch a bombing campaign on military targets within Tripoli, and they would use the resulting chaos to get in, retrieve Harry and retreat to the helicopter, which was waiting for them about ten miles into the desert. It sounded simple enough, but she knew there was a myriad amount of things that could go wrong. For one, people would have noticed the helicopter as it dropped them off less than two miles from the city. For another, the three men with her might be in civilian clothes, but their bearing and haircuts made it fairly obvious that they were military. If they were stopped by a roadblock on their way in, they would be rumbled within seconds.

The sound of an engine drew closer and she looked up to see a relatively new, open-backed pick-up truck stop close by. She and Robert scurried over, and Ruth got into the cab next to Benson. She would provide directions, as she could more or less remember where the roadblocks had been the previous night and would attempt to steer them clear of those. Robert and Simmons crouched in the back, their weapons hidden under some loose sacking they had brought along for the purpose. The young soldier drove carefully, his eyes flicking about, missing nothing. Ruth had a map open on her lap, and they followed the route Khadija had marked out as the safest one for her the previous night. As they drew ever closer to the place where she had left Harry, her fears that it would all be in vain increased ten-fold. She gritted her teeth against the emotion and willed him to still be alive when they got there.

- 0 -

Khadija watched helplessly as the Westerner gradually lost the battle to stay alive. She seriously contemplated risking everything by taking him to the nearest hospital. Ruth had expressly forbidden it, but it was almost ten o'clock and she hadn't come back for him yet. Khadija was no longer certain that the other woman would come back at all, and she couldn't bear to sit by and watch as the life seeped out of another human being without doing everything within her power to prevent it. But the women could not move him by themselves, and she couldn't ask the men in her family for help. She was distracted by a low whining sound that grew louder very quickly, and as it passed overhead the walls shook from the vibrations. She recognised it as the sound of NATO fighter planes, and turned to the unconscious man next to her.  
"I think they are coming for you," she told him with a smile, and had barely finished speaking when the air resounded with the percussion of the first bombs falling on her city.

- 0 -

As soon as Robert heard the planes streaming overhead, he thumped the roof of the cab. "Floor it! Direct route, Ruth."  
Benson obeyed immediately, and Ruth braced herself with one hand against the dashboard as he flung the truck around a corner at a dangerously high speed. A small, slow car swung in front of them suddenly and he had to veer around it sharply. They missed it by inches.  
"Fuck! Imbecile!" he shouted over his shoulder, before remembering her presence. "Shit, sorry Ma'am… Oh, bugger-"  
"Just drive," she said as calmly as she could manage, as the young man dug himself ever deeper into a hole.  
He did as he was told, making liberal use of the horn whenever they approached a crossing before shooting straight through it without slowing down. They felt the air vibrate and heard a distant thump as the first bombs began to fell.  
"Next corner right, then a hundred metres down the street," Ruth instructed as she hung on for dear life.  
They took the corner on two wheels before Benson slid the vehicle through a 180 degree turn and brought it to a halt in front of the skeletal building.

Ruth had the door open before they had come to a full stop, and raced inside with Robert and the SAS Captain short on her heels. Benson stayed with the truck, covering the street and keeping the engine going.  
"Khadija!" Ruth called as soon as they approached the stairs, and switched on the torch she held.  
"Ruth!" came the answering shout, and Simmons went up the stairs first, gun at the ready.  
He burst onto the landing, and Khadija stared at him with wide eyes. Ruth rushed past him and to Harry's side. He looked deathly still and white in the beam of the torch.  
"Oh God, Harry." She fell to her knees next to him and reached for his hand.  
It was cold, too cold, and in the weak light she couldn't detect any movement of his chest. A numbing fear gripped her as she faced the terrible prospect that they were too late.

"Is he alive?" she asked Khadija in a shaking voice, expecting the worst.  
The Libyan woman nodded, and it took Ruth a few seconds to register the action. Hope surged in her, but it was checked by Khadija's next words. "But not for long, Ruth. You must hurry. I've given him two pints of blood, but he's bleeding too much. You must operate immediately and stop the bleeding inside, or he will be dead in an hour or two."  
Robert was kneeling on Harry's other side. "What did she say?"  
Ruth translated hurriedly, and he immediately bent down to pick Harry up. "Give me a hand," he instructed Simmons, who slung his weapon over his shoulder and moved over. As they slid their hands under Harry and lifted him, Ruth enveloped Khadija in a desperate hug.  
"Thank you. I owe you everything, and I won't forget it."  
"You're welcome. Go, be safe. And one day when my country is free of this tyrant, you both come back and visit me."  
"I will. _We _will," Ruth said determinedly. The two women looked at each other, sealing the promise between them, before Ruth hurried down the stairs after the others.

They paused just inside the door, listening, but all was quiet out on the street. The thump of bombs going off elsewhere in the city provided a continuous back-drop. Robert nodded, and they scuttled out to the vehicle. The two men lifted Harry into the back and laid him down carefully. Robert turned to Ruth, and was about to speak when a gunshot cracked the air.

_tbc_


	9. Chapter 9

- 0 -

_**I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands  
and wrote my will across the sky in stars  
To gain you Freedom, the seven-pillared worthy house,  
that your eyes might be shining for me  
when I came.**_**  
- T.E. Lawrence**

**- 0 –**

_Friday 8 July, late night  
Tripoli_

The bullet smacked into the wall behind Robert's head. Ruth instinctively ducked, but Robert and the SAS Captain reacted immediately. Robert vaulted onto the truck, and the other man grabbed Ruth and heaved her up towards him as Benson laid down covering fire. Robert grabbed her arms and yanked her onto the back, before shoving her down next to Harry. "Keep him as still as you can," he instructed as Simmons flung the blanket at her before jumping on. They took up station either side of the vehicle.  
"Let's go!" Robert yelled at Benson. "And we're not stopping for _anything_," he added ominously. The young man nodded, hopped behind the wheel, and gunned the engine. They shot down the street.

Ruth propped herself against the cab and gathered the unconscious Harry in her arms, cradling him to her. She covered him with the blanket and used her legs, spread out either side of him, to pin it down. Pressing her cheek against the top of his head, she murmured, "Hold on. We're almost there. Just for a little while longer. Please, Harry."  
Fearing that moving him had used up the last of his reserves, she pressed her hand over his heart and closed her eyes to concentrate. It was still beating, although she could barely feel it. She kept her hand on his chest to reassure her that he was still there, still with her, all during the wild drive through the city.

Initially they met little resistance. Twice army vehicles passed them, hurrying in the other direction, towards the area where the bombs had fallen. They paid the speeding truck no attention. However, when the third one passed they were not so lucky. It made a u-turn and set off in pursuit, gaining on them steadily. Robert swore and settled down on one knee next to Ruth, brought up his gun in a smooth arc, and took aim. He let off a short burst, causing the pursuing vehicle to swerve wildly. It kept on coming. The SAS Captain fished in his bag and brought out a hand grenade. Ruth's eyes widened at the sight of it, but a bullet pinging off the roof of the cab just above her head caused her to squeeze her eyes shut and duck down. Simmons pulled the safety pin and waited for the other vehicle to close the gap a bit more, then simply slid his arm over the side and dropped it on the road. Their pursuers never even saw it, and it detonated right under them. Ruth looked back to see smoke pouring from the crippled vehicle as soldiers hastily abandoned it and ran to safety.

They reached the outskirts of the city without further incident and roared through deserted streets at high speed. Benson was an excellent driver; he had in fact been chosen to come along because of his background of driving rally cars. He slewed the truck around another corner, and as it straightened up and jumped forward, Ruth heard Robert mutter, "Christ."  
She glanced over her shoulder, and her heart sank. Their way was barred by a roadblock, and a thick red and white pole was slung across the road. Despite this their driver never lifted his foot off the pedal, and they continued to speed towards it. The two men in the back with her took aim across the roof of the cab, and opened fire as soon as they were in range. The astonished soldiers manning the roadblock were caught completely unawares, and scrambled for cover. By the time they were ready to shoot back, the vehicle was right on top of them, and Benson swung the wheel hard to the right. The truck mounted the pavement and caught the end of the pole, causing it to cart-wheel away. They swerved momentarily out of control as the young man fought the steering wheel, before he managed to bring them back onto the road. Robert and Simmons had been thrown from their feet and were sprawled against the tail-end. The Libyan soldiers scrambled towards one of their vehicles and set off in pursuit, but the rescuers had a healthy lead and Benson was determined not to lose it. He pushed the truck to its limit. Ruth belatedly realised that a bullet had shattered the back window of the cab, and she and Harry were covered in glass. She didn't attempt to remove the shards in the dark, for fear of cutting him. Instead she kept them both as still as was possible under the circumstances.

A few miles outside the city, Benson swung the truck onto a faint track and raced across the desert. Stones rattled and pinged against the undercarriage, but the ride was surprisingly smooth. From time to time they would hit patches of deeper sand, and would fish-tail precariously as Benson kept up the speed relentlessly. Soon the low ridge of hills rose up in front of them, and the track began to zigzag up it. Ruth and Harry would have been flung from side to side, had it not been for the bulk of the two men wedged either side of them, helping to keep their movement down to a minimum. Ruth looked back to see their pursuers turn onto the track they had taken, but lost sight of them when the truck crested the hill and plunged down the other side. Benson didn't bother to stick to the meandering track any longer, but pointed the nose straight down and went for it. Down in the valley the waiting helicopter glinted invitingly in the moonlight, and it started up as soon as their lights appeared over the hill. The dust swirled around them as they hurtled through the thick sand, forcing Ruth to cover Harry's face with the blanket to spare him from the worst. It created an unwelcome image, and for a moment she imagined seeing him like that because he was dead. She clutched him to her even harder, as though she could transfer some of her own life-force to him.

It took less than five minutes to descend, and the truck juddered as it slammed into the dry wadi at the bottom of the hill, before re-establishing its grip and roaring towards the helicopter. When they skidded to a halt next to it, the co-pilot jumped out with a stretcher, and helped load Harry onto it. He was swiftly transferred to the aircraft. Everyone else piled in and the pilot lifted off immediately. The pursuing vehicle crested the hill as he turned the nose towards the ocean.  
"Make haste," Robert instructed, and this time they flew straight across the city. It was lit up by the orange glow of fires in several places – a result of the NATO bombs. As she held Harry's hand, Ruth hoped fervently that no innocent civilians had been killed. At one stage the helicopter swerved sharply and she saw the stripy lights of tracer bullets pass by on their right, but was only vaguely aware that they were taking anti-aircraft fire. Her sole focus was on Harry.

When they reached the _Liverpool_, the ship's surgeon was waiting on deck with a gurney. Harry was transferred to it and rushed to the small but state-of-the-art operating theatre. They had barely got him inside when the surgeon's assistant exclaimed: "His heart stopped!"  
Ruth's only thought was to get to Harry, but she was forcibly dragged out of the way by Robert.  
"Let them do their jobs," he said as he held her struggling form tightly.  
They watched helplessly as the assistant started CPR whilst the paddles charged, and then the surgeon called: "Clear!"  
The others stepped away and he shocked Harry; his whole body jumped as the current ran through it. All eyes moved to the heart monitor, but the line stayed stubbornly flat. He repeated the action, with the same result. A third time, and once again nothing happened. Ruth dropped her head in anguish and a feeling of overwhelming desolation swept over her.

And then she heard it: a faint beep.

She looked up to see the green line on the heart monitor blip weakly.  
"He's back," the surgeon said, glancing at the two figures huddled in the corner. He turned to his assistant, suddenly all brisk efficiency. "Prep him for surgery immediately, and get some blood into him."  
Ruth sagged against Robert as the emotional toll of the last two days caught up with her, and he had to hold her up.  
"You have to leave now," the surgeon instructed.  
"Come on," Robert said softly, and guided Ruth towards the door.  
She took a few steps before turning back. "Just give me one moment with him," she pleaded, and the surgeon nodded.  
Ruth walked to the head of the operating table and looked down on the features she loved so deeply. She caressed his cheeks and leant down to press a lingering kiss to his forehead.  
"Please fight," she whispered, her voice catching on the words, before she turned away quickly and rushed from the room.

- 0 -

_Two hours later_

Ruth was seated in the small examination room next to the operating theatre, waiting. Robert had been there until a few minutes earlier, but had been called away on urgent business. So she was alone, with nothing to distract her from her fears and anxieties. By this time she knew the wording on all the posters against the wall by heart, and had counted all the visible rivets numerous times. There was a surprisingly large number, and she deduced that warships, one of the most technologically advanced inventions on the planet, were apparently held together by one of the simplest. She reminded herself to share the thought with Harry, who enjoyed her interest in all things idiosyncratic. He was sure to be amused by it.  
_Harry_...  
Her fears flooded back, and she breathed deeply in an effort to keep them at bay. What was taking so long? Was it a good or a bad sign?

As she glanced at her watch again, there was a timid knock at the open door, and she looked up to see Benson hovering there. He was cleaned up and his fatigues were impeccable, and his freckles and prickly red hair made him look absurdly young. Ruth, on the other hand, was still covered in the dust and grime from the operation; unwilling to abandon her post for a shower lest anything should happen to Harry in the few minutes she was gone. She found a grateful smile for him – she was convinced that no-one could have got them to the helicopter faster than he had.  
Benson cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Ma'am."  
"It's fine," Ruth encouraged him, "I can do with the distraction."  
He nodded sagely, and it saddened her that such a young man should understand what it felt like to wait for word about a mortally wounded friend. But then he was a soldier, and unfortunately not too young to be acquainted with the vagaries and consequences of war. He came closer and held out his hand to her, palm up. On it lay the ring she had given Khadija.  
"We found it in the helicopter. Your... er, Mr Pearce must have dropped it. I noticed it in his hand when we loaded him in earlier."  
She reached out and picked it up carefully. "Thanks," she said softly.

He saw tears gather in her eyes as she turned it over between her fingers. Only then did he notice that there was blood on it, and cursed himself for not cleaning it first.  
"Can I get you anything? Tea, or water maybe?" he offered, trying to make up for the oversight.  
"Some water would be nice," she said, more out of a desire to appease him than thirst. Benson nodded gratefully and bounded from the room.

- 0 -

_Another two hours later_

Ruth jerked awake, momentarily disoriented, but reality soon came flooding back. Robert was sitting opposite her quietly and gave her a crooked smile.  
"Why didn't you wake me?" she demanded, mortified that she had fallen asleep while Harry was fighting for his life next door.  
"You're exhausted, Ruth. You need rest. Staying awake until you collapse is not going to do Harry any good."  
She didn't respond, and her eyes moved to the door, and then to her watch.  
"Four hours… What's taking so long?"  
"I don't know. But as long as they're working on him, it means he's still alive."  
"Yes." She turned to him. "I haven't thanked you yet for all you've done. You could be court-martialled or kicked out of the Navy for it."  
Robert shrugged. "It was worth it. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if-"  
He stopped talking as he noticed the surgeon standing in the door.

They stared at him in fearful silence. Ruth noted how tired he looked, but his face gave nothing else away. He was a man that was used to conveying bad news to loved ones, she thought as she studied his long, stubbled face.  
At last he spoke. "He's alive," he stated flatly, and Ruth felt weak with relief.  
"However," he continued, and she stopped breathing. "His heart stopped twice on the table. He is extremely weak, and we have induced a coma in an effort to give his body a chance to recover. I managed to repair all the internal damage – the bullet ricocheted around off his ribs, damaging blood vessels and some of his organs. His lung was nicked and had partially collapsed, and as the blood gathered in his organ cavity it was gradually pressed down even more, so that's why he struggled to breathe."  
Ruth was shocked into silence, so Robert asked, "What are his chances?"  
The surgeon looked him straight in the eye. "It's not good, but he's alive for now. That's better than nothing. We'll keep him in the coma for a few days and see how his vital signs react."  
He hesitated and glanced at Ruth, before continuing. "Frankly, due to the extent of his injuries, I'm amazed that he survived until you could retrieve him. It's a good sign – he obviously has a will to live. That's invaluable in circumstances like these."  
Turning to Ruth, he said gently, "You can see him if you want."  
She nodded gratefully and followed him as he turned on his heel, squeezing Robert's shoulder as she walked past.

The surgeon led her to the recovery room where Harry was the only occupant, and left her alone with him. She seated herself in the chair next to his bed and surveyed him critically. He was connected to a bewildering array of machines, and he was as pale as the crisp white sheet he lay on. When she took his hand, his skin felt clammy and cold. His face was streaked with dirt and his short hair was in disarray. She sat quietly, caressing his hand, and watched his chest rise and fall. It comforted her even though she knew the machines were doing it for him.  
"You're all right now," she told him, infusing her voice with confidence she did not feel. "They've repaired all the damage, so you'll be fine."  
The surgeon's assistant entered and regretfully asked her to leave, assuring her that she could come back in a few hours time. After a lingering kiss on Harry's cheek, Ruth extracted a promise from the assistant to call her as soon as there was any change to his condition, and left for a well-deserved shower. She didn't bother to dry her hair before collapsing on her bed and falling asleep immediately.

- 0 -

_One week later_

The first thing he became aware of was the voice. Its pitch and timbre soothed him, and gently called him towards it through the darkness surrounding him. A woman's voice, his sluggish brain recognised after listening to it for a while. She was reading to him with a pleasing cadence, and he loved it.  
He adored her voice, he decided, and after listening to it for a few seconds more the realisation came to him: he loved _her_.

Ruth.

He fought harder to break free from the darkness, to join her in the light.

- 0 -

Ruth held Harry's hand as she read _Seven Pillars of Wisdom _to him, her thumb unconsciously stroking the back of his hand. She had done this every day for hours on end, and the surgeon let her be. Harry had determinedly clung onto life, and after four days they had decided to bring him out of the induced coma. Three more days had passed in which his vital signs grew gradually stronger, and the surgeon now seemed confident of a total recovery. All that was left was for him to wake up.

"_'Arabs of means rode none but she-camels,'_" she read, "_'since they went smoother under the saddle than males, and were better tempered and less noisy: also, they were patient and would endure to march long after they were worn out, indeed until they tottered with exhaustion and fell in their tracks and died: whereas the coarser males grew angry, flung themselves down when tired, and from sheer rage would die there unnecessarily-'_"  
A scratchy, croaking voice interrupted. "...Calling me... a camel?"  
Ruth's head snapped up, to find two bleary brown eyes regarding her solemnly.  
"Oh, Harry," she said softly, too overcome to say any more. He squeezed her hand weakly.  
"Hi," he rasped through a dry throat, and she reached for the glass of water on the table and helped him to take a few sips.  
"Better?" she asked, and he nodded.  
Moments later his face clouded and he grabbed her hand more forcefully. "Ruth... the bombs?"  
"Shh, stay calm," she remonstrated, caressing his unshaven cheek. "We got them all. England is safe."

He lay back, mollified, and murmured proudly, "You did it."  
But when he looked back at her there was regret in his eyes. "I have to tell you something."  
"What?" she asked, concerned by his downcast expression.  
"Your ring. The Libyan woman gave it to me, and I had it in my hand, but I passed out, and I must have dropped it. I'm sorry, Ruth."  
She smiled radiantly at him, and he frowned, confused, until she lifted her other hand and showed it to him.  
"You didn't lose it, Harry. You kept hold of it right until the end."  
"Oh." He relaxed in relief, and then looked at her with such intensity that she squirmed slightly.  
"I have to tell you something else," he said firmly. He tried to sit up, but the movement made him wince in pain, and she gently pressed him down again.  
"It can wait, Harry. You need-"  
"No, it can't," he objected hotly. "You're not stopping me from saying it this time."  
She realised then what it was about, and her heart began to thump loudly in her chest as she watched him silently.  
He smiled, and laid his hand against her cheek and neck, feeling her rapid pulse under his fingers.  
"I love you, Ruth. So much."  
He didn't have the strength to say more, but she could read everything in his gaze. He had fought to stay alive for _her_. Their eyes held, sparkling with emotion, and he pulled her to him before she could respond and kissed her. He didn't let go, and breathed in her answering confession as she formed the words without detaching her mouth from his.

She should tell him everything that had happened; the fury of the Foreign Secretary when she found out what Harry had done, and how Towers had stage-managed the political fall-out and ensured that neither he nor Robert would get in trouble. She should tell him how committed Robert had been to rescue him and all that his friend had risked, and how much they owed to Khadija and the other women that had helped her, as well as the SAS Captain and young Benson.

But it could all wait. When they stopped kissing and he closed his eyes in exhaustion, she sat back, staying with him, watching him sleep. His chest rose and fell steadily, and she rejoiced in it. Never again would she take his presence in her life for granted. She reached for his hand and held it gently, careful not to wake him.  
"You rest now, Harry," she told him, and picked up the book to continue reading. Her eye caught the passage about the camels again and she smirked to herself.  
"My very own she-camel," she murmured, and she could have sworn she saw his mouth twitch in amusement before he breathed deeply and his hand relaxed in hers.

As she sat there tracing his sleeping features lovingly, she was reminded of Winston Churchill's observation about T.E. Lawrence:  
_'The world looks with some awe upon a man who appears unconcernedly indifferent to home, money, comfort, rank, or even power and fame. The world feels not without a certain apprehension, that here is someone outside its jurisdiction; someone before whom its allurements may be spread in vain; someone strangely enfranchised, untamed, untrammelled by convention, moving independent of the ordinary currents of human convention.' _

She thought it somewhat applicable to the man in front of her, and knew, unequivocally, that not only her world, but the world in general, was a better place for having Harry Pearce still in it.

_Fin _


End file.
